A day in North Wales :: 30 March 2026

With the clocks having moved forward an hour on Sunday, we were able to enjoy a lie-in, until around 2.30–2.45am and still arriving in North Wales in time for a black grouse lek at about 6.00am, with sunrise due at 6.42am - even allowing for a breakfast stop along the way. This has become something of an annual pilgrimage, though always a long day, as we planned to continue birding after the grouse before making the lengthy drive back to Banbury.

I picked up Kev @kev07713 at around 3.20am and we headed towards the lek site, stopping a few hundred metres short to get ourselves organised in the car - cameras ready, binoculars to hand, and coffee poured - positioning ourselves so we could both watch from the driver’s side, which offered the best view of the display area. Opening the doors revealed not the gentle breeze that had been forecast, but a stiff, biting wind that almost held them shut. Once outside, my hat was immediately snatched from my head by a sudden gust - fortunately, I have the reactions of a cat 😜 and managed to catch it before it disappeared down the slope.

We pulled in at the roadside to find two cars already parked ahead of us, leaving space for perhaps only one more vehicle behind without blocking the track for passing traffic. It was still dark but as we lowered the windows, we could hear the black grouse and just make out their shapes on the slope - seven birds in total. The wind made the air sharply cold; Kev pulled on his gloves while I zipped up my gilet. At least it wasn’t raining.

As the light slowly improved, we watched and counted again, only to realise that one bird appeared to have gone AWOL, leaving six remaining on the lek. There was still more than half an hour until sunrise, and with the slope backed by a hill, it would be at least fifteen minutes after sunrise before the sun finally crested the ridge and reached us.

A car pulled in behind us and in my rear view mirror I thought that the driver looked like Alan Boddington - likely my first and only positive ID of the day - Kev spun round on the back seats and confirmed that it was and sent him a message asking why he was so late and had needed a lie-in; Kev does like a bit of banter. We then settled down to watch the birds.

As the light strengthened, the black grouse on the lek became easier to watch in detail. These males stood out strikingly against the pale grass, their glossy blue-black plumage catching what little dawn light there was. Each bird held its lyre-shaped tail fanned wide, the white undertail coverts flashing whenever they turned or leapt into the air. The vivid red combs above their eyes glow as they postured and faced one another, heads lowered and wings drooped in exaggerated display.

From time to time, two birds would square up, circling stiff-legged before rushing together in a brief burst of energy, wings flapping and feet skittering across the turf. Between these confrontations they produced a constant chorus of bubbling, cooing calls interspersed with sharp hisses - sounds that carried clearly through the cold morning air.

As the light improved, the black grouse became increasingly active on the lek. The males spread themselves across the slope, each holding a small territory while keeping a wary eye on their neighbours. Much of the activity consisted of ritualised confrontation rather than outright conflict. Adjacent males edged closer in short, deliberate steps, circling one another before breaking into brief chases or rushing together in flurries of wingbeats and kicking feet. These encounters were usually short-lived, with both birds quickly returning to their chosen patches to resume displaying.

Meadow pipits lifted from the far side of the display area like back-garden fireworks, rising in gentle bursts before drifting slowly back down to the ground. Beyond the lek, an unlikely trio passed through - two mallards accompanied by a single male teal - while, in the distance, a lone male wheatear showed briefly.

After watching for a couple of hours, the van in front began manoeuvring to leave, which we took as our cue to do the same. As we pulled out, the two cars behind shuffled forward to take the space we had been occupying. Ahead, another pair of vehicles were parked up overlooking the display area, partially blocking the road, while a car approaching from the opposite direction was forced to pull in so everyone could carefully rearrange and pass.

Once clear, we continued on, setting off in search of red grouse, hoping to find birds perched conspicuously on the heather as we followed the winding single-track road.

A little further along the moor we came across a pair of red grouse beside the roadside, the differences between the sexes immediately apparent. The male stood more boldly in the open feeding, rich chestnut plumage glowing warmly against the heather and his red eye combs giving him a fierce expression. Just behind, the female remained more subdued and cautious, her mottled brown plumage providing excellent camouflage as she fed quietly among the stems. While the male paused frequently to stand upright and scan his surroundings, the female kept lower to the ground, moving deliberately and blending into the moor.

Behind us, we noticed Alan following along the track, and as we pulled into a passing place to let them through, we stopped for a quick chat. They drove on about 100 metres before turning around and passing us again in the opposite direction, explaining that they were heading off to see the long-staying lesser yellowlegs at Rhyl. As we were thinking of doing the same, we agreed we would probably meet again there.

For now, though, we continued along the track in search of more red grouse, adding several more sightings - some reasonably close and others much farther out across the moor.

Along the way we encountered many more meadow pipits, along with skylarks and stonechats. By the time we reached the woods at the end of the track we were ready for another coffee, so we stopped to refill from our flasks, during which a red kite drifted overhead along with two peregrines.

From here, the SatNav on my phone suggested we could continue down the hill rather than retrace our route along the track. As we followed the road alongside a stream, it began to widen and, just as Kev was scanning ahead, a dipper flew upstream right on cue - at least for Kev, as I was concentrating on driving and keeping the car on the road. We quickly pulled over and jumped out to search upstream, but the bird had clearly travelled farther than we could reasonably see.

With that, we set off towards Rhyl.

We arrived at the suggested parking spot and were surprised not to see Alan’s car already there. Parking up, we set off along the footpath towards the riverbank. Gulls and geese stood the fields on either side, while a pair of stonechats flicked up and down along the hedge, the male seemingly escorting us as we made the fairly long walk to the water’s edge.

On arrival, it became clear that the wind here was just as strong, and I quickly realised I should probably have swapped my baseball cap for a woolly hat before setting out. Across the water were scattered gulls, cormorants, black-tailed godwits and a couple of oystercatchers. Kev scanned to our right and picked out many more black-tailed godwits, along with redshank, additional gulls, and a couple of dunlins.

Looking back down the track, we could see Alan approaching with a group of eleven other birders - all volunteers from Warwickshire Wildlife Trust’s Brandon Marsh reserve. They soon joined us scanning the area, and Kev added two sandwich terns to the steadily growing species list. Before long we upped sticks and continued along the footpath towards the spot where Alan had seen the lesser yellowlegs on his previous visit, and where the pinned location suggested it should be.

Before we even reached the area, Alan was already standing with binoculars raised, having relocated the bird. Scopes were quickly set up on tripods while those with cameras attempted record shots of this first-winter individual. The lesser yellowlegs showed well, albeit on the far bank - a delicate and elegant wader. Its first-winter plumage appeared neat and subtly patterned, with soft grey-brown upperparts edged pale, creating a gently scaled effect across the back and wings. The underparts were clean white, marked only by light streaking across the breast, lacking the heavier patterning of breeding adults.

Its long, bright yellow legs stood out even at distance against the muted mud and pale grass. The bill was fine, straight and entirely dark, reinforcing the bird’s dainty structure. Feeding actively and purposefully along the water’s edge, it picked briskly with quick, precise movements while remaining constantly alert.

At times it paused upright, revealing its elegant proportions - long-necked, slim-bodied and slightly attenuated towards the rear - before resuming its steady feeding. At one point the bird flew out over the water and briefly looked as though it might land on our side of the river, only to change its mind and return to the opposite bank, perhaps wisely deciding against settling alongside fourteen eager birders.

Kev and I weren’t quite sure what to do next, but while chatting with the Brandon Marsh group they mentioned they were planning to head to the Great Orme in search of chough - Alan confidently remarking that he had never failed to see them there, a bold claim. It sounded too good an opportunity to miss, and as neither Kev nor I had visited before, it also offered the chance to gather some useful intelligence for future trips.

Birding at the Great Orme has a distinctive feel, the open limestone headland rising above the sea with sweeping views in every direction. The short, grazed turf and rocky slopes create ideal habitat for coastal specialists, and even on a windy day like today there always seems to be movement. Jackdaws and crows drifted effortlessly along the cliff edge, occasionally tumbling in display, while a handful of gulls wheeled below against the backdrop of the Irish Sea.

The main attraction, however, was the chough. We made our way to the car park at the top, where Kev went to buy a parking ticket while I scanned the surrounding fields from beside the car. Almost immediately, I spotted three choughs feeding on the slope below. When Kev returned, we grabbed his scope and headed down the hillside to close at least half the distance.

The three choughs moved across the slopes with buoyant, elastic flight, their glossy black plumage flashing in the sunlight and their long red bills and legs standing out vividly whenever they landed. They fed by probing the short turf, sometimes disappearing briefly into dips in the ground before reappearing further along the hillside, calling with their distinctive ringing notes that carried clearly on the wind.

Reaching a vantage point opposite the birds, we stopped to scan, and before long the Brandon Marsh birders appeared, making their way down to join us. Shortly afterwards, three more choughs flew in and briefly joined the original trio. Having enjoyed good views, and after being thoroughly buffeted by the wind, we decided we’d seen enough, excused ourselves, and headed back up to the café for a sandwich lunch.

After lunch we returned to the car park, where we found some of the Brandon Marsh birders finishing a packed lunch beside their cars. Alan, it seemed, had already moved on, heading down to the cliffs in search of black guillemots - a species he remarked he had missed there only once. Kev still needed the bird for his year list, so we decided to join them, and one of the chaps kindly offered to lead the way if we followed his car.

We soon arrived at the walled cliff edge and looked out over the sea, with Alan commenting on how unusually quite it was on the water was compared to his previous visits. Overhead, a couple of choughs passed through, announcing their presence with their distinctive calls.

We began scanning the water more carefully, working slowly across the surprisingly calm sea in the hope of picking something out. The chap standing next to me mentioned he thought he had a diver far out in front of us - a red-throated diver. It didn’t take long to locate it through the scope, the bird sitting low in the water as it preened before drifting steadily farther from the shore with the gentle swell.

The sea felt unusually quiet, with little surface activity, though occasional gannets passed through in ones and twos, powering low over the water on stiff wings. They appeared to be travelling rather than feeding, continuing purposefully along the coastline without pausing to plunge-dive. Every so often we rescanned the same stretch of water, hoping a black guillemot might suddenly appear among the ripples, the anticipation keeping everyone fixed to their scopes despite the persistent wind.

We could find singles and pairs of common guillemots but none of their cousins - a shame but there was little activity on the water, and we'd given it a good try. On the cliffs were both shag and cormorants, joined by a couple of fulmars. Several fulmars circled effortlessly on stiff, outstretched wings, barely seeming to move as they rode the updrafts rising from the rock below. They glided back and forth, tilting subtly to adjust to the wind, giving distant scope views of their pale grey backs and clean white heads.

From time to time, one would angle towards a narrow ledge, lowering its feet and fluttering briefly as if preparing to land. For a moment it appeared committed, wings half-folded as it touched down, only to change its mind almost immediately. With a quick push and a few shallow wingbeats, the bird dropped away from the rock face and was instantly airborne again, swept outward by the wind before resuming its effortless circling.

This tentative settling seemed repeated again and again - approach, hover, land, then abandon the attempt within seconds - as though the birds were constantly reassessing the ledges in the shifting gusts, never quite satisfied before taking once more to the air.

Alan and the rest of the Brandon Marsh birders began packing up after watching a rock pipit on the rocks behind us, mentioning they were off to continue birding elsewhere. Kev and I stayed a little longer, but we didn’t manage to add anything more to our day list, and eventually set off on the nearly four-hour journey back home. Traffic in Banbury was disrupted by a couple of collisions on the main road from the motorway, delaying our arrival by an additional half hour. It had been a long day, but a thoroughly enjoyable one.

Year list: 210.

Etton-Maxey Pit & RSPB Frampton Marsh :: 20 September 2025

The weather would again help make the decision as to where Kev @kev07713 and I would go - early morning rain would sweep into the UK from the west and eastern sites would be the best bet. Looking at where there were any birds of note we quickly settled on the juvenile lesser yellowlegs at Etton-Maxey Pits in Cambridgeshire.

The site is important for migrant shorebirds and waders, especially in spring and autumn with birds like whimbrel, greenshank, wood sandpiper, and bar-tailed godwit turning up regularly - terns often drop in, and there’s always the chance of a rarity, an Arctic or black tern wouldn't go amiss. It is a former gravel extraction area that has become one of the best wetland birding sites in Cambridgeshire. As the machinery moved on, water slowly filled the voids and today, shallow pools, deeper lakes, and muddy fringes combine to create an extensive wetland environment.

Public rights of way run along the edges of the pits, with access possible from both Etton (via Green Lane) and Maxey village. It may not be a “reserve” in the official sense, but it’s an outstanding example of nature reclaiming an industrial landscape.

We walked from the car and, rounding the corner, met another birder heading the opposite way. He confirmed that our bird was still on site, associating with a greenshank around the muddy islands about halfway along the track past the lefthand pool (Rectory Pit). We pressed on, following a birder just 50 meters ahead. He paused to scan the area, narrowly missing a marsh harrier gliding just beyond him. Kev and I shared the same thought as it passed over the area where the lesser yellowlegs had most recently been seen - might it flush our bird?

This juvenile lesser yellowlegs was first discovered on 16 September and was then refound at Rectory Pit the following day. Reports suggest it has frequented several pools within the Etton–Maxey complex: Rectory Pit, Pig Jaw Pit, and Old Silt Pit.

The juvenile lesser yellowlegs is a medium-sized wader, slightly smaller and slimmer than a greenshank. Its long, bright yellow legs stand out, while the straight, moderately long dark bill complements its small head, which features a pale eyebrow line extending just behind the eye. The upperparts are soft grey-brown with fine pale fringes on the back and wings, and the underparts are mostly white, with subtle streaking across the breast and flanks. These juveniles are highly active, probing along muddy pools and shallow water with quick, stabbing motions, often bobbing slightly as they walk - a contrast to the action of a greenshank.

When we reached the viewing spot, a gap in the bank allowed us to peer down into the pool. We immediately spotted a greenshank, though its companion from earlier sightings was nowhere to be seen. These birds are transient here, staging on long journeys between northern breeding grounds and wintering sites further south.

The greenshank fed away from us, and as we scanned for our target bird, it slipped quietly out of view. With no sign of the yellowlegs, our companion headed off along the pool, exploring the top corner of the pit. It might still be here, or it may have been flushed by the marsh harrier and/or relocated to one of the other nearby pools.

Out in front, a great white egret stood gracefully then took to the wing and relocated, while a couple of green sandpipers made brief flythroughs across the pool. A marsh harrier passed overhead, clearly a different individual from the one we’d seen earlier - and we soon spotted the greenshank again as it moved to a small island along the far bank.

I was scanning along the water’s edge when I noticed the other birder waving in the distance. I quickly alerted Kev - it looked like we might be in luck, and our bird had been located. We hurried down the track and soon found the lesser yellowlegs feeding along the water’s edge, probing rapidly through the shallow mud for small invertebrates. For several minutes, it worked the shoreline tirelessly, fully absorbed in its hunt. As Kev moved along the bank to get a better angle for video, the bird suddenly took to the wing. I had to point out its new location, now much further down the pool and back where we'd stopped previously.

Eventually, we decided to make our way back down the track, hoping to gain closer views of the bird. As we walked, a few new arrivals joined us, each clearly eager for a glimpse of our bird - though the bird remained some distance away, the scopes revealed every detail. I could resist taking photos and even a couple of videos.

Eventually, the lesser yellowlegs took to the wing, flying strongly across the larger pool behind us, presumably heading toward one of the other pits it had been seen at on previous days. We scanned the surrounding pools, working through the gulls and wildfowl in the hope of spotting something of interest. A kingfisher called from nearby, though it remained unseen, and a spotted redshank flew overhead.

We continued to work the area, checking each pool carefully, when I noticed a couple of birds moving through the distance. One was clearly a green sandpiper, and the other bore all the hallmarks of our yellowlegs. Returning to the Rectory Pit, we confirmed our suspicions. We spent another ten minutes watching it, along with a variety of other species feeding on, around, and above the water. Terns on the pools were all commons.

We checked Birdguides to see if anything interesting had been reported locally and decided to head to RSPB Frampton Marsh, now just 45 minutes away. On arrival, we learned that the café would soon be closing, so we made our way straight out onto the reserve. The site had experienced notably dry conditions throughout September. Despite occasional light rain, much of the reserve remained parched, with very little water present - any recent rainfall having quickly evaporated in the warm days leading up to our visit. This extended dryness reflects a broader trend across southern and eastern England.

Goldfinches were abundant, flitting through stretches of sunflowers and teasels that line the reserve tracks. Eventually, we stumbled upon a small patch of water and spotted three black-tailed godwits feeding in the last remaining muddy gullies. Volunteers explained that while they hope to reflood the pools, water levels are low even in the ditches where they pump from, and they are awaiting the delivery of a new pump to help restore the habitats.

We’d heard reports of a group of eight bearded tits seen earlier in the morning, so we headed along the usual tracks where they’re often seen. Yet again, though, we drew a blank. Despite being reported almost daily, I’ve never managed to connect with this species at Frampton Marsh - they seem determined to keep themselves hidden from me.

Turning back, we made our way toward the sea wall, pausing often to enjoy the butterflies along the track. A fresh painted lady caught our attention, mobile in the sunshine and increasingly strong wind, and then Kev picked out a common blue on the track itself.

The common blue butterfly is a widespread species found across the UK, and is typically active from April to October, with peak sightings often occurring in late summer. It is typically found in areas with abundant wildflowers, such as clover, bird's-foot trefoil, and restharrow, plants that serve as both food sources and larval hosts. These butterflies are commonly spotted in the grassy meadows, along the reserve tracks, and in areas with sunlit patches of vegetation. Four golden plovers flew by.

We reached the fence by the gate leading up onto the sea wall and could see that a couple of birders would soon be coming down the steps. We paused to scan the area - there was actually a patch of water to observe. Suddenly, Kev alerted me to movement in the grass just ahead: a stoat! It appeared to be carrying something, perhaps a young rat? For a brief moment it froze, as if thinking, “you can’t see me,” before dashing toward the safety of the reeds, tail flicking behind it.

Stoats are among the charismatic mammals frequently spotted at Frampton Marsh. Sightings are common, with these agile hunters often seen bounding through the grass or crossing paths, especially during the colder months when vegetation is sparse, making them easier to see. It’s easy to wonder whether you’re looking at a stoat or a weasel but there are a few key differences to help you tell them apart. Size is the first clue. Stoats are noticeably larger and more robust, with long, sleek bodies and a weight that can reach up to 450 grams. Weasels are smaller and more delicate, with a tiny, elongated frame and lighter build.

The tail is another giveaway. Stoats have a long, bushy tail with a distinctive black tip that’s present all year round. Weasels have a shorter, thinner tail, usually without a black tip. Fur colour can help too - both species have brown backs and creamy white bellies in summer, but stoats have a more pronounced contrast and a larger head and rounder ears. As my dad used to joke: weasels are weasily distinguished while stoats are stoatily different - I'll get my coat.

Scanning out across the saltmarsh, we picked out a single brent goose, followed soon after by a marsh harrier with large red wing tags. It quartered the marsh at some distance before reappearing behind us, still keeping to the same range.

Along the sea wall, cattle were grazing and scattered among them were small groups of yellow wagtails, including one particularly striking male that stood out brightly against the grass. Most of these begin to leave the UK from late August through September, with the bulk of passage migrants moving south in September. They travel through western Europe and across the Mediterranean into sub-Saharan Africa, where they spend the winter. A few stragglers can still be seen into early October, especially along the east and south coasts at migration hotspots, but by mid-autumn almost all have gone.

We’d heard that a little stint and a spotted redshank were around, but no matter how hard we looked, there was no sign of either - the little stint had been recorded from the Reedbed hide for over a week but supposedly had relocated just off the sea wall. To be fair, we’d almost certainly have seen them if they’d been present - the remaining pools were nearly empty, holding only a scattering of redshank.

At the benches, we paused to scan. One of the reserve volunteers was working steadily with his scope, pacing back and forth as if tracking something down one of the channels. Later we learned he’d been watching the glossy ibis reported earlier in the day.

Kev settled on the bench with his scope but soon joined me when I picked out the spotted redshank wading in the pool below. We had just enough time to enjoy a view as it strolled across the shallows before slipping behind the reeds. Within a minute it lifted off, circling once before flying out over the saltmarsh and vanishing into the distance.

We dropped down the steps and headed back towards the Visitor Centre to get some coffee and a cake and came across a whooper swan feeding in amongst the cattle. This individual had been present at the reserve since the summer, suggesting it is likely the same injured bird reported earlier in the year. Frampton Marsh is a prime location for wintering whooper swans, with the reserve recording its highest-ever count of 1,440 individuals in November 2024 - the reserve usually supports 150-300 of the swans during the winter months. Whooper swans are increasing markedly as a winter visitor to Britain and according to a 2023 study, the British wintering population is forecast to double by 2030. The research demonstrated that nature reserves in low-lying coastal areas, such as Frampton Marsh, were key to the survival of migratory whooper swans.

It was time to return home and as we reversed out of our parking space a large black bird flew towards us - it was the glossy ibis! Unfortunately, we had already packed our cameras away but could still enjoy the flyover.

Year list: 237.