Hampshire day-out :: 20 January 2026

When unsure where to go, Kev and I usually find ourselves choosing between RSPB Frampton Marsh and the Hampshire & Isle of Wight Wildlife Trust’s Lymington & Keyhaven Marshes Nature Reserve. With rain forecast to clear from the southwest, we opted for our first visit to Lymington of 2026. It certainly won’t be our last, as we often return after the spring migration to catch up with little terns and a host of other species.

Keyhaven Marshes form part of an extensive coastal wetland and nature reserve stretching between the mouth of the Lymington River and the village of Keyhaven on Hampshire’s Solent coast. The landscape is a rich mosaic of saltmarsh, intertidal mudflats, lagoons, grazing marsh and shingle banks. At this time of year, the area supports large flocks of Brent geese, wigeon, teal, pintail, grey plover, dunlin, black-tailed godwit and a wide variety of other wildfowl and waders, many of which can be observed from the Normandy Lagoon.

Although access across the marshes themselves is restricted to avoid disturbing the birds, a network of sea wall paths and footpaths provides excellent views across the reserve. The sea wall linking Keyhaven and Lymington offers a flat, scenic walk, with sweeping views across the flats towards Hurst Spit and the Isle of Wight.

We arrived at our usual parking spot and made our way towards the Keyhaven Lagoon, with curlews calling overhead and Brent geese feeding in fields through flocks of curlews, Canada geese, teal, and black-tailed godwits. Climbing up onto the sea wall, we were met by a stiff wind; although steady at around 25 mph, the gusts were stronger still, making it feel far colder than the 8°C shown on the car’s display. Deciding against standing in the full force of it, we dropped down to the lower path for some shelter and scanned across the lagoon, soon focusing on the 19 spoonbills exhibiting their usual behaviour ... fast asleep.

At their feet were small groups of avocets, with both species being welcome year ticks. Recent bird records show that spoonbills are now regular visitors to the Lymington–Keyhaven Marshes, particularly during winter and migration periods, and are increasingly occurring in small flocks rather than as lone birds. Counts of up to c.19 spoonbills have been reported at Normandy Marsh, matching our observation.

Spoonbills are now a regular presence from late autumn through winter and into early spring, taking advantage of the shallow feeding habitats of the Normandy Marsh and Lagoon, as well as the adjacent lagoons. A couple of avocets had broken away from the main group and were feeding quietly in the shallows.

We stopped to chat with a local Hampshire birder, who shared details of the species he had encountered during his visit. He confirmed that activity out on the edge of the Solent was reduced, as the tide was close to its peak, pushing many birds back towards the lagoons. This was evident in the numbers of dunlin and ringed plovers gathered on the islands and along the water’s edge.

The conversation proved fortuitous, as we picked up some valuable local knowledge, including information on purple sandpipers and, more importantly, a potential roost site for hawfinches. Coincidentally, Kev and I had been discussing where we might catch up with this species, as our usual local flock appears to have moved on and has been absent for the past couple of winters.

We worked our way round to the southern edge and soon located one of the two reported spotted redshanks, perched at the water’s edge. Within a minute or two it dropped into the lagoon and began swimming across towards another feeding wader. At first, I assumed it was the second spotted redshank, but it soon became clear that the bird was a greenshank. As the redshank swam across, Kev commented that it would make a great photo - I was already on the case - before he remembered that he was carrying a camera too and joined in. Hilarious!

Spotted redshanks are a regular but generally scarce part of the winter and migration bird community here and they’re reliable enough that birders often look for them here in the colder months. In Britain, they are primarily a passage migrant in spring and autumn, with small numbers overwintering at key wetlands, estuaries and coastal marshes and are usually encountered singly or in small groups, rather than large flocks.

Out in the lagoon, increasing numbers of dunlin and ringed plovers gathered, mainly among the lapwings. A small group of ringed plovers in particular caught the eye as they formed a tight cluster beside a tile on a small, raised island. Adding to the wader numbers were oystercatchers, their numbers gradually building as time passed.

Kev had been on a trip down into Cornwall and back through Somerset at the weekend and had sharpened his gull identification, calling a Mediterranean gull as it passed behind us and out onto the Solent. These gulls are regularly present around here in winter, although they’re more often associated with spring and summer breeding gatherings - scarce but regular in winter, with records often in single‑figure counts at these coastal sites. In winter plumage, Mediterranean gulls lose the full black hood seen in summer but still show a distinctive darker mask behind the eye, pinkish legs and a slightly stouter bill than black‑headed gulls.

We continued along the path when, suddenly, a bird flicked from the gorse back into cover. From its colouring, it could only be one species, a Dartford warbler. While Dartford warblers are regularly recorded around the Nature Reserve, they aren’t core marsh birds like waders. Instead, they favour the scrubby, gorse‑rich higher ground and coastal scrub surrounding the reserve. Preferring gorse, bramble, and other scrubby vegetation rather than open saltmarsh, they are usually found on the landward side of the site, where scrub grows on higher ground or rough pasture. It was therefore a pleasant surprise to encounter one between the edge of the lagoon and the Solent. I waited patiently, and after a couple of relocations, it popped out long enough for me to snap a few photos.

We had just remarked that we would normally have seen some stonechats by this point when a pair suddenly appeared ahead along the path. They moved frequently between the ground and prominent perches, with the female eventually drifting further away while the male stayed closer, giving excellent views.

We had heard reports of Slavonian grebes along the stretch where Pennington Marsh meets the sea, near the jetty, so we made our way there. Scanning the area, we spotted the same species, as already recorded, in the lagoons on the landward side of the coastal sea wall, along with another Mediterranean gull and at least 50 golden plovers. There had been a report of a merlin perched on a post feeding on prey, but we never encountered it; however, we did locate a kestrel and a female‑type cream‑crowned marsh harrier. Reaching the sea wall proved challenging, as the wind was so strong that both Kev and I lost our hats, chasing them down the slope, and we were left worrying that the scopes might be blown over. After a few minutes of scanning, we found six red‑breasted mergansers, but there was nothing else to hold us, and no sign of the grebes.

We then relocated in an attempt to connect with purple sandpipers, but this quickly became a “twitching drive-by” as the wind continued to strengthen. We abandoned the idea and while sightings would have been welcome, it would have been no fun standing in that wind. After a brief discussion, we set off again, heading for the site where a hawfinch roost had been reported. Conveniently, it was on the way home and only about twenty minutes from where we were parked.

Hawfinches gather at communal roost sites, often perching in the ornamental conifers here where they can be observed by birders. Survey data shows that hundreds may be present at these roosts - for example, around 353 hawfinches across 35 roosts were recorded in early 2024. These birds are elusive and quiet year‑round, often perched high in the canopy and difficult to see during the breeding season. In winter, however, they become more visible in the leafless trees, with their numbers often bolstered by continental migrants arriving from northern Europe.

We parked and followed the path suggested by the local birder earlier. Along the way, we came across a couple of treecreepers and nuthatches and were soon joined by another local birder carrying binoculars and a camera - he knew the area well and could advise us on which spots to focus on. Our wait began, with marsh tits calling in the trees behind us. Kev spotted a mash tit in a nearby tree, but before I could get on it, it flew out of view - I’d try again later. I thought I glimpsed a hawfinch overhead, but it disappeared into the trees and I couldn’t relocate it. Eventually, I strolled further down the track to see if a different angle would give a better view, leaving Kev and the other birder watching the favoured trees.

After a couple of minutes, I heard a whistle - it was Kev letting me know that hawfinches had dropped into the favoured tree and I hurried back, making out four birds through the branches. They quickly moved to a tree on the right, and I followed, searching for a better line of sight. Kev later told me that he thinks we had nine hawfinches in total and has video showing five of them together in a single frame.

Eventually, the hawfinches had moved to an area to the right of where they had first appeared. With the trees still swaying in the wind, the birds were revealed only intermittently, teasing glimpses through the branches.

It was now time to add a marsh tit to my year list. We came across at least three, busy foraging around a picnic bench where some food had been left by visitors and in the same area, chaffinches, goldcrests, coal tits, and a single firecrest flitted about, adding to the lively scene.

We had found exactly what we’d come for and were delighted to have had good views of so many of these woodland sprites. Normally, this would have meant adding the firecrest to my year list, but remarkably, this was the third site in three weeks where I had encountered one. Satisfied with our sightings, we packed up and set out for home.

Year list: 127.

RSPB Snettisham :: 02 August 2025

Looking at our options, Kev @kev07713 and I quickly agreed that the best plan was to head east towards the Norfolk coast and spend the day at RSPB Snettisham. The reserve had been attracting a fair bit of attention recently thanks to several interesting waders being reported, including pectoral sandpiper, white-rumped sandpiper, and curlew sandpiper. Of the three, the white-rumped was always going to be more of a gamble as sightings had tailed off for a day or two, which usually means it had either moved further along the coast or was feeding out of sight somewhere on the vast mudflats. Still, birding is often about the chase as much as the reward, and we knew that Snettisham always delivers plenty to see, whether or not the rarities put in an appearance.

RSPB Snettisham is a truly spectacular reserve sitting on the edge of The Wash, one of the UK’s most important estuaries for wintering and passage birds. Twice a day, when the tide pushes thousands of waders off the mudflats and into the lagoons, the place comes alive in a way that few reserves can match. Knot, dunlin, oystercatcher, and bar-tailed godwits gather in vast numbers, swirling in dense flocks that seem to shape-shift in unison. It’s a spectacle that has rightly earned the site its reputation as one of the country’s birding highlights, particularly during the famed autumn “whirling wader” events. Unfortunately, the tide would be under 6 meters and too low to have a really spectacular display.

Even without the rarities, the promise of seeing that sheer abundance was enough to make the trip worthwhile. Add to that the possibility of catching up with a scarce American sandpiper or two, and it felt like an opportunity too good to miss. Whether we connected with the target birds or not, we were certain of a memorable day on the marshes.

We pulled into the car park and gathered our gear, ready for the familiar but deceptively long walk out to the reserve. No matter how many times you do it, the stretch always seems further than you remember, though that extra distance often brings its own surprises. Part of me was quietly hoping we might chance upon a turtle dove along the way, as they have been known to linger in this area during summer, their soft purring call such a rare sound now in Britain. Sadly, it wasn’t to be on this occasion.

What we did get, however, was something altogether unexpected. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the elegant white shape of a spoonbill gliding across the sky, following the river course, its long neck outstretched and unmistakable bill catching the light. Before we’d even finished remarking on the sighting, a second bird appeared, this time passing almost directly overhead, close enough for us to admire the details of its slow, deliberate wingbeats. An uplifting start to the day.

As we pressed on, the hedgerows and scrub lining the path were busy with smaller birds. Whitethroats flitted about, pausing briefly on the tops of brambles to deliver their scratchy song, while sedge warblers rattled away unseen in the reedier patches. Here and there, other “little brown jobs” (LBJs) darted from bush to bush, just quick glimpses of movement that keep you scanning and listening in case something more unusual pops up. It was a reminder that at Snettisham, even the approach to the lagoons can be rich with life if you take the time to look and listen.

As we reached the climb up from the edge of the river, our attention was drawn to a pair of terns quartering the river. They moved with that characteristic buoyancy, wings beating steadily as they hovered and then dived sharply into the surface in pursuit of fish. For a moment, I let myself hope that one of them might turn out to be something a little different - perhaps an Arctic tern to add to my year list.

In the end, the clean lines and bright red bills revealed them to be common terns. No disappointment, though - they remain a delight to watch and it’s hard not to admire their precision as they work the shallows. There’s something about terns that always lifts the mood: the way they seem perfectly at home skimming the water’s surface. Even if they weren’t the rarity I’d hoped for, they added another welcome note to the day list.

Looking out towards the sea, our eyes were drawn to a large flock of waders rising and twisting against the grey sky. The whole mass moved as one, a cloud that shifted shape in an instant. At this distance, it was impossible to pick out individual species, but experience told us what we were watching: a swirling mix that would almost certainly include red knot, black-tailed godwits, and dunlin.

These aerial ballets are always spellbinding, and part of the magic lies in knowing that each bird is responding instinctively to the movement of those around it, tiny adjustments creating one vast synchronised display. We paused briefly, even though we knew we’d enjoy closer views once we made it to the sea wall. There, with luck, we’d be able to watch the flocks settle onto the mudflats or be pushed inland by the rising tide, turning distant silhouettes into a varied collection of waders.

Just before we reached the turn leading onto the sea wall, another species caught our attention. A group of Egyptian geese were gathered along the bank that bordered the water, their striking chestnut eye patches and bold plumage standing out against the grey sky reflections of the water. A few more drifted lazily across the surface, paddling in unhurried circles as though entirely at ease.

Though not native, these birds have become a familiar sight in parts of Norfolk and further afield, their numbers steadily increasing over recent years. There’s something slightly exotic about them, with their upright posture and loud, honking calls, a reminder of their origins along the Nile. While they don’t stir the excitement of a rarity, they add a hint of the exotic.

We paused for a moment to chat with a birder stationed off to our right - he confirmed that he’d managed to pick out the pectoral sandpiper earlier from the Rotary Hide. That was encouraging news, exactly what we wanted to hear. A pec would be a new bird for the year, and while it can be a slippery customer, just knowing it had been seen nearby gave us hope.

From the hide, we trained our scopes across the pool, scanning intently for anything out of the ordinary. At first, though, every promising shape resolved itself into yet another dunlin. One, then another, then another - plenty to sift through but none bearing the crisp breast band of our target bird. The couple sharing the hide with us reassured us that we weren’t chasing shadows; they too had seen the pec earlier, first on a distant spit and later working the edge of a nearby island. Encouraged, we continued scanning the flocks with patience and hope.

Meanwhile, movement behind us kept drawing my eyes away from the islands. A large gathering of waders congregated in a large body, made up of black-tailed godwits and red knot, two of the signature species of The Wash, and together they created an extraordinary spectacle. Likely thousands of birds compressed into a tight group - a classic defensive behaviour of waders: safety in numbers, each bird shielded by the mass, confusing potential predators.

A little while later, a couple more birders drifted into the hide to join the search. One of them turned out to be a familiar face - Des, a regular presence along the east coast and someone we’ve bumped into on more than one occasion - at Frampton, Hunstanton amongst others. There’s always a certain camaraderie when birders gather like this: seeing familiar faces.

We continued to work our way steadily through the waders, scoping every dunlin, double-checking every redshank, lingering over anything that seemed slightly out of place. Then, after a spell of silence, Des spoke up. He thought he had it - the pectoral sandpiper - picked out at long range. Even with a scope, the view was distant, but it was enough to be confident.

The bird itself, when you finally lock onto one, is subtle yet distinctive. About the size of a dunlin but a touch longer and slimmer, with neatly scalloped upperparts and, most importantly, a sharp, dark pectoral band across the chest that gives the species its name. This band cuts cleanly into the white belly below, creating a contrast that makes the bird look crisply marked compared with its neighbours.

Pectoral sandpipers breed in the Arctic tundra of North America and Siberia, but every autumn a scattering of them crosses the Atlantic to turn up on our shores, a long-distance migrant blown off course - spotting one is always a thrill.

Even though the view was far from perfect, the knowledge that we had connected with this scarce visitor was satisfying. We watched hoping for a closer look, but content at least that our patience had paid off.

A little nearer to the hide, we picked out a small group of spotted redshanks gathered quietly in the water. Most of them were dozing, bills tucked neatly into their feathers, their reflections rippling faintly on the surface. A few birds stirred now and then to preen, stretching their wings or carefully working their bills through their plumage in slow, deliberate movements.

By this stage in the year, they had mostly slipped back into their winter plumage, the dramatic black-and-white finery of summer giving way to the more subdued, silvery-grey tones that make them easy to confuse at a glance with common redshanks. Still, their slimmer build, longer legs, and the elegant sweep of their needle-fine bills gave them a certain poise, and the occasional flash of white underwing when one shifted position was enough to mark them out. While a handful winter in the UK, most are just passing through on migration.

Before long we left the hide behind and wandered over to one of the benches that offered a broad view across the mudflats, accompanied by Des. From here we could watch the incoming tide slowly swallowing the sandbanks, pushing the waders ever closer. It’s one of the joys of Snettisham - the way the landscape transforms hour by hour, and with it the behaviour of the birds.

Scanning the distant waders, I picked out my first grey plovers of the year. They were far too distant for a photograph, but their bold markings stood out clearly through the scope. Still holding onto their summer plumage, they looked magnificent - black faces and bellies framed by striking white borders, contrasting sharply with the silver-grey of their backs.

Looking back over the hide we saw a raptor being mobbed by terns - it turned out to be a kestrel, although initially we thought it might have been a hobby. We saw at least seven more across on the left side of the estuary.

The tide continued its steady advance, though it soon became clear that the water would never quite reach us where we were stationed. Instead, it would linger frustratingly far out, leaving the birds just beyond the range for any close views. Even so, the shifting waterline had its effect.

As the mudflats gradually disappeared, the waders were forced to move, edging along the shore and every so often the entire flock would lift, bursting into the air as one, wheeling and twisting against the light before settling again.

Even at a distance, the sight of so many birds responding instinctively to the rhythm of the tide was spectacular. The lack of close views didn’t diminish the sense of drama.

We began working our way back along the track, eyes scanning the mudflats and shallow pools for any sign of a curlew sandpiper or a little stint, both of which had been reported in the area recently. At the first of the buildings along the wall, we paused, spotting a few sandwich terns with the more familiar common terns. Among the various gulls resting along the water’s edge were a few Mediterranean gulls mingling with black-headed, herring, great black-backed, and lesser black-backed gulls - plenty to keep the eyes busy.

Then, out in front of us, I caught a flash of movement: a curlew sandpiper, unmistakable with its compact frame and striking, slightly downcurved bill. Before I could get more than a brief look, it slipped quietly into a gully, disappearing from view but not before I got Des and Kev on it. A little later, our persistence was rewarded again when another birder spotted one further out along the shallows, taking advantage of the tide here having advanced a little further. It moved deliberately, probing the wet sand and shallow water with its bill, giving just enough of a view to admire the pale underparts, warmer reddish tones on the back, and the elegant, slightly hunched posture that distinguishes this small wader. Soon enough it vanished again.

From behind us came the soft, familiar purring call of a turtle dove. After a few moments of careful scanning, we finally picked it out perched atop a tall tree. It was distant, but seeing one so clearly was a reminder that these gentle birds are still managing to hold their own here, despite the challenges they face nationally.

Des said he was off home, and it was time for us to do the same. No sign of the white-rumped sandpiper but we had enjoyed a great day and noted at least 66 species.

Year list: 227.

RSPB Frampton Marsh :: 05 July 2025

It was shaping up to be another potentially damp Saturday, so Kev @kev07713 and I headed northeast, where the forecast looked driest; our destination this time was RSPB Frampton Marsh. There was nothing particularly headline-worthy reported and most of the recent highlights had already moved on - but there’s always hope, and a day spent birding at Frampton is never wasted.

We skipped our usual breakfast stop, planning instead to grab something from the Visitor Centre once it opened. Arriving in good time, we made our way toward the 360 Hide and Reedbed Hide, pausing along the way to enjoy good numbers of black-tailed godwits, ruff, little ringed plovers, and a couple of redshanks mixed in with the usual wildfowl. A reed warbler darted across our path, while linnets and goldfinches flitted overhead.

At the 360 Hide, we settled in and began scanning the pools. Reports of spotted redshanks had come in recently with 11 individuals reported earlier in the week, it looked like they were all still present and showing well.

The spotted redshank is a striking and elegant wader, medium-sized, with long legs and a distinctive silhouette. They pass through the UK mainly on migration and occasionally overwinter in small numbers. Seeing a group like this together made for one of the day’s highlights. In summer breeding plumage it sports striking black with white spots, long red legs, and a slightly upturned bill with a red base. Our birds were in this form but as winter approaches they will return to non-breeding plumage - a pale grey above and white below, more subdued.

They do not breed in the UK but in the far north of Scandinavia and Russia. A passage migrant, they are typically seen in spring (April–May) and more commonly in autumn (July–October). There are often up to 5 birds but there has obviously been a bit of an upgrade! Between here and the Reedbed Hide we had some distant but occasional good views. From the Reedbed Hide there was an individual who was sleeping in the edge of the grass, beak tucked under its wings and motionless - well every five minutes or so it would look up and before you could even reach for the camera it would be back down.

At one point, something spooked the flock - godwits, lapwings, ducks, and even the spotted redshank all lifted into the air in a sudden burst of activity. After a couple of circuits over the hide, the birds gradually settled back down. The spotted redshank returned to the island, at first keeping close to cover. After a few minutes, it stepped back into the open water, spent some time preening, and then returned to its preferred roosting spot to doze.

From the 360 Hide, we had a good view across the pools. Most birds were either sleeping or preening, though a few were actively feeding in the shallows. Spotted redshanks forage by wading through shallow water, using their long legs and slender, slightly upturned bills. In deeper areas, they often sweep their bills from side to side, a technique similar to that of an avocet, to detect and disturb prey. Much of their foraging is done by touch rather than sight, thanks to sensitive receptors in the bill that can detect movement in the water.

On the island, behind the spotted redshank was a single spoonbill - others were grouped elsewhere and as usual, fast asleep.

From the 360 Hide, we also watched a pair of little ringed plovers fiercely defending their territory. They repeatedly chased off any birds that strayed too close, first a few ruff, then a couple of unsuspecting lapwings. After a few minutes, the reason for their agitation became clear - two tiny chicks appeared, likely no more than a day old. Cute.

Within just a few hours of hatching, little ringed plover chicks are up on their feet - long legs and all - and leave the nest almost immediately to begin foraging. They’re precocial and nidifugous, meaning they’re mobile and feeding independently from the start, though both parents stay close to guide them to invertebrate-rich spots and keep watch for danger.

We started back to Reedbed Hide and came across a sedge warbler calling and perch just below the tops of the reeds - in the end I found an angle I could get a clear view - I suppose it won't be too long before they are on the move.

Almost back to the Reedbed Hide we stopped to look at the sand martin wall - there had been significant numbers of them in the sky above us and here we saw them returning to their chicks to feed them. In mid‑June, the reserve team observed the first nesting tunnel being dug in a constructed sand/gravel bank, and now 67 Sand Martin nests are active in the colony. Many pairs attempt a second brood before they depart in late summer or early autumn

Several of the nest holes had chicks perched right at the entrance, their tiny heads poking out as they waited to be fed. Now and then, a cluster of adults would gather near the wall, only to scatter suddenly, as if sensing a nearby threat. I managed to capture one of these moments on video.

We continued toward the East Hide, pausing along the way to watch several ruff and a mix of dabbling ducks and other wildfowl. At one point, Kev picked out a bird and called it as a wood sandpiper, a call we both quickly agreed on. It stood in place preening, giving us a good look, though it didn’t move much. Eventually, it took off to feed elsewhere, leaving us to carry on to the hide.

From the East Hide, Kev once again picked out the wood sandpiper, this time feeding along the far side of the pool. It moved steadily from right to left, and a few others in the hide were eager to get onto it. Once they realised just how distant it was, most abandoned any hopes of a photo, though one determined birder mentioned heading to another hide in case it offered a better view.

We lost sight of the bird for a while but managed to relocate it a couple more times before heading off to continue our walk along the sea wall.

Now on the sea wall we saw marsh harrier, male and female, quartering on the saltmarsh, and a single brent goose - the UK hosts tens of thousands of brent geese from October to March and this time of year they have usually migrated to Arctic Russia, Svalbard, and Greenland to breed (May–August). RSPB Frampton Marsh and similar wetland reserves occasionally report isolated birds in summer.

Back off the sea wall, we chatted with a reserve volunteer who mentioned a couple of green sandpipers had been seen along the return route. We’d already picked up a couple of common sandpipers, so it was great to add another species to the list. Thinking about it, I’ve seen fewer green sandpipers this year than usual, so it was a welcome addition, and our 57th species of the day.

We stopped at the Centre for some food, catching it still serving, but not long before they would close – almost too late even for lunch!

Year list: 219.