On Monday 12th April I awoke to astonishing scenes. Not only had there been a significant overnight snowfall, but intensely heavy snow was still falling. I staggered out to Warneford Meadow to begin my daily pre-dawn search for migrant birds, but could hardly see across the meadow for the snow:
The view across the trees of the Lye Valley, towards the Wood Farm towerblock, from the golfcourse. This is April!
I was in a state of shock. The conditions were more like the Cairngorms (though with less crampons, see here). Needless to say, bird activity was severely reduced by the heavy snow. Indeed, the only bird of note was a fly-over Grey Heron, nicely illuminated from below by light reflected from the fallen snow:
I wondered what effect such heavy snow would have on the blossom of the many trees, just in bloom?
And how would the insectivore bird species possibly find anything to eat in such alien conditions? My questions were answered as I approach a pair of silver birch trees at the south end of the golf course. Incredibly, both trees were alive with phylloscopus warblers, feeding in the snow-covered branches:
I came to a conservative total of at least 8 Chiffchaffs, but the trees were filled with constant movements. Some of the Chiffchaffs had snow frozen to their feet as they moved through the trees:
But best of all were 2 Willow Warblers, both singing frequently. To stand in heavy snow, at times a near white-out, and listen to the liquid, descending notes of summer left me almost unable to reconcile what I could see, with what I could hear, my senses conflicted.
A Willow Warbler, feeding and singing, in heavy snow.
By 7:30am the snow had stopped falling. With the temperature just above freezing, the melt began. I was lucky to glimpse one of the local Tawny Owls, left absolutely bedraggled by the snowstorm:
Other birds appeared completely untouched by the snow. This Eurasian Jay perched for a moment on a branch above the stream, absolutely pristine in pink, blue and black. The colours were back.
By late morning, after taking my daughters’ sledging, the sun was out and most of the snow was gone, as though it was never there at all. The bushes were filled with singing Blackcaps and Chiffchaffs and there were insects in the tree blossoms. The early morning white-out was a monochrome memory.
Common Scoters are sea ducks. Their winters are spent off the UK and Irish west coasts, they migrate to Scandinavia and Russia to breed in arctic pools in the permanent daylight of the northern summer. As such, they spend most of their lives well away from land-locked Oxfordshire. Small numbers of Common Scoters appear in Oxfordshire in spring, mid-summer and autumn (see here for a few more details). The majority of records come from the county’s largest waterbody, Farmoor Reservoir, as birds drop in during their migration. Common Scoter migrate at night and are perfectly camouflaged. The males are sooty black, the females dark brown. They will not be seen at night. Fortunately, they have evolved to make frequent and distinctive flight calls to each other. It is these calls that betray their presence in the night sky. And until up to 2019 that was the story of Common Scoters in the Oxfordshire. Then came the global covid pandemic.
Common Scoters, Bolt Tail, Devon, August 2020
By late March 2020, hundreds of birders were forced to be at home in the first national coronavirus lockdown. As news broke that a significant nocturnal movement of Common Scoter was occurring across northern England, lockdowned birders across the rest of the country began listening out for the flight calls of Common Scoters. Something was happening. It became apparent that Common Scoters not only used the Wirral-Humber flyway in northern England, but also the Severn-Thames flyway across southern England, and in fact, were being reported right across southern England as they migrated east overland (see here).
As early spring 2021 came around, Isaac West and I discussed the possibility of trying to hear Common Scoters on nocturnal migration from our local patch of the Lye Valley and Warneford Meadow in Headington, Oxford. This area, comprising of a local nature reserve, a meadow and a golf course has no open water and until 8th March 2021 over 368 patch visits had only produced one species of duck: Mallard. The 8th March saw a flock of 7 Goosander flyover, a completely unexpected new species for the area and a remarkable record. Even so, trying to add a species of sea duck to this list seemed like complete madness. But the first covid spring of 2020 had taught us something: the skies are alive with the sound of scoters. Sometimes.
This week we spent three evenings, socially distanced, on Southfield Golf Course listening to the sky. Isaac prefers the expression “live noc-mig”, but I like “sky-listening”. Like “sea-watching”, it captures what you actually spend most of your time doing. Almost immediately I heard the sound of Wigeon passing overhead. A satisfying start and duck number three for the Lye Valley area! Shortly afterward, we heard the sound of a very loud scooter revving up and driving through east Oxford. But above it, the flight call of a Coot:
Scooter and Coot (at the 3-4 second mark). Nocturnal flight call, Southfield Golf Course, Oxford 23rd March 2021. Recording by Isaac West.
So we had scooter, but not scoter. The best moment of the evening was at 21:30 when the first Barn Owl for the area hissed at us:
The first 90-minute sky-listening session had produced three new species for the area. I was hooked. With little wind forecast for the next night, we tried again on Tuesday 23rd March. Very early on we both heard the pyu-pyu-pyu calls of a migrating Common Scoter flock. They were very distant, to the east, so distant in fact that Isaac’s recorder did not pick up the calls. Success, but we wanted proof. We wanted a recording. We tried again on Wednesday 24th March. It was desperately quiet, not even a Redwing called. By 21:30 we were both cold and about to give up, when the ringing calls of Common Scoter were heard again, this time from the west. The flock passed over, heading east, but was just loud enough to be audible on the recording:
Scooter and scoter were in the bag! You don’t need special equipment to hear these migrating flocks of sea ducks. Although distant, both the flocks we heard on the nights of 23rd and 24th March were quite clearly audible over the sounds of east Oxford. An overhead flock would be quite an experience.
Find a quiet spot on a still night, be familiar with the flight call (Teal and other duck species are also on the move at night and are also vocal) and be patient. We spent a total of 4.5 hours listening across three successive evenings to hear the two Common Scoter flocks pass over. Last year the major movement of Common Scoter across England occurred in the first week of April, so we may not be at peak scoter yet. The next few weeks provide a real opportunity to get Common Scoter, an arctic-breeding sea duck, on your Oxfordshire patch and garden lists. Incredible stuff.
The winter of 2020-21 will forever be associated with the covid pandemic. But as we emerge from the grimmest winter this country has faced since the Second World War, we should also remember that this winter has been the coldest in the UK since 2010. The early part of the year saw snow in the Lye Valley and Warneford Meadow:
Cold weather can also force some bird species to move in large numbers to find easier feeding grounds. There was a significant movement of Lapwings across Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire on 13th February, including the first Lapwings recorded over the Lye Valley. Isaac West counted 165 on that day, all moving south-west, to escape the cold weather:
The resident birds were forced to try to survive the freezing temperatures, including this roosting Tawny Owl and the Jay, below:
But despite the temperatures, increasing daylight also stimulated birds to begin breeding behaviour. There was a singing Blackcap in Boundary Brook on January 23rd in temperatures well below zero, the earliest recorded singing warbler in the Lye Valley area. This was almost certainly a lingering wintering bird from central Europe that was inspired to sing, rather than one of our breeding birds, which in late January should still be in Spain. We await the return of these birds in late March and early April, when the valley will be filled with their song:
Other unusual winter-singers, included two Redwing in song on Southfield Golf Course on 6th March:
This winter has been very good for small finches, with small numbers of Lesser Redpolls present and up to 50 Siskin in the Lye Valley, including this male.
By early March many bird species were in song or demonstrating territorial breeding behaviour. The display flight of Stock Doves could often be seen, flashing their iridescent neck feathering:
This Long-tailed Tit was gathering lichen from tree branches to begin nest-building:
Up to three male Great Spotted Woodpeckers could be heard drumming:
These two male Pheasants spent a morning displaying to each other on the golf course:
Early Spring is also characterised the overhead migration of waterbirds. The usual Canada and Greylag Geese have both been recorded in March, but far less expected was this flock of 7 Goosander, seen flying over Warneford Meadow on 8th March:
With spring in the air and birds on the move, the next six weeks could be one the most productive periods of bird migration in the whole year. After the long cold winter and the covid pandemic, we need some spring days, warm temperatures and hopefully, some superb spring migration over the Lye Valley and Warneford Meadow.
This morning dawned cold, with frost crunching underfoot and a light mist clinging to the coldest areas. The early winter gold and browns of Warneford Meadow, above, turned white at least until the sun burnt through. On the golf course, ice crystals coated the grass blades and froze fungi into tiny cut glass mushrooms:
Some of the larger fungi, protected from above by tree branches, remained frost free:
The Fly Agaric mushrooms, which could be found beneath the Silver Birches of the golf course until late October, have long gone:
A pale shape, high up in a hole in a poplar tree, revealed a sleeping Tawny Owl. The pale feathering above the eyes may help break up the bird’s outline and provide camouflage:
This may be one of the birds that bred locally, pictures of an adult and fledged chicks can be seen at the end of this post from May.
This morning was a good morning for raptors too, though the low temperatures meant that most were sitting perched awaiting the warmth of the sun. A male Kestrel sat in willows near the Churchill Hospital pond; a Buzzard brooded on a tree on the golf course and this female Sparrowhawk sat unobtrusively above Boundary Brook:
Being larger raptors, the local Red Kites sat out on more prominent perches, catching the cold November sun:
This has been a much more productive winter for thrushes and finches than last winter in the Lye Valley and Warneford Meadow area. In the winter of 2019-20, I struggled to record single figure numbers of Fieldfares, Siskins or Redpolls. This winter all have returned in good numbers. Siskins have been recorded in flocks of up to 35, Lesser Redpoll is frequently recorded and there are up to 50 Fieldfares and between 50-100 Redwing present during most visits this month. The thrushes, including this Mistle Thrush and the Redwing below it, are drawn to the holly berries:
But even as the nights draw in and the days approach their shortest length, some birds are preparing for the next breeding season. On 16th November this Song Thrush became the first singing thrush recorded since mid-summer. This morning three were in full song. There are four weeks to go before the shortest day, but for some, spring is already on the way.
With our house undergoing significant building work, we were relieved to be offered the use of a friend’s house during half-term. Even better, their house was right at the end of Fife Ness, on the Scottish east coast. My luck did not extend to having ideal winds, the coast was battered by relentless strong southerly and south-westerly winds all week, probably the least productive wind vectors for late autumn migration on the east coast.
Above, looking inland from the extreme tip of Fife Ness. The wooden hut is the Fife Bird Club seawatching hide, closed under covid regulations. Behind it is the lighthouse. Our house was just behind the lighthouse. The small woodland of Fife Ness Muir can just be seen on the right of this picture. Each morning I would check the woodland and have a brief seawatch.
We had a great week, though visible migration was very quiet all week. The best moment came as I completed a run in the late afternoon of October 26th. It was clear a torrential rainstorm was just about to break, the wind had picked up and the sky darkened. I picked up my pace to get back before the rain, sprinted back to our house and glanced up at the sky as I reached for the front door. As I did so, I noticed a swift flying in from the sea. Being late October, and being so far north, I was immediately aware that there was a chance that this bird may be a Pallid Swift. Fast-moving storms crossing the Atlantic pull up air from southern Europe, creating strong southerly airflows across Europe, which can displace swifts well north of their usual range. Martin Garner found a Pallid Swift at Flamborough on the same date in 2013, see here. My first reaction was that I would need photographs of this bird.
I kicked down the front door of the house and grabbed my camera, which I had left on the hall table (just in case I needed it quickly!). I was back outside in less than 5 seconds and to my relief, the bird was still in sight, just about overhead, still heading west along the coast, at a medium height. I took photographs of the bird, then watched it disappear inland. Thirty seconds later, the skies opened and a torrential downpour began and it rained until dark.
And the lack of light was the problem. I processed the pictures immediately, but no amount of altering exposure, contrast, brightness or shadows could produce any plumage features at all. If there was an eye-mask, a pale throat or mantle saddle, let alone pale edges to the body feathering, then they remained invisible to me. Another, possibly better, explanation is that this bird was an adult Common Swift, in which case it would appear pretty uniformly dark anyway. Either way, there simply was not enough light to get any useful plumage details. This bird remains on my eBird list as “swift sp”.
The second best bird was a juvenile Red-backed Shrike found by another birder in nearby Kilminning early in the week. It matched the autumn leaves nicely:
The rest of week, I enjoyed the local birds and kept an eye open for whatever migrants were around:
OystercatchersRedshank, Dulin and SanderlingOystercatcher, Knot and RedshankPurple SandpipersGrey SealStonechatCurlewFieldfare
Early one morning, the skies were suddenly filled with the calls of Pink-footed Geese. Nearly a thousand birds passed south down the coast, presumably heading for the north Norfolk coast.
We spent our final day on the coast at Tentsmuir Forest, a superb combination of beach, forest and Red Squirrels:
There has been much discussion generated by the arrival in England of a juvenile Lammergeier from the reintroduction program in the Alps this year. This reminded me of my experiences with the species in the Spanish Pyrenees, some ten years ago.
In early February 2010, I spent a few days in the mountains of northern Spain. I called into Gallacanta, the main wintering grounds of the European population of Common Crane. Many thousands of Cranes were present:
But my main target was in the mountains. I had arranged to spend a few days in a photo hide at a vulture feeding site. The site was on a ridge in the Pyrenean foothills. In the picture below, the feeding area is the open area above the dry stone walls. The photo hide can just be seen protruding from the bush on the right side of the feeding area:
A few barrel loads of goat carcasses and goat’s feet and were picked up from a local abattoir en route. As soon as I was safely locked in the hide, the animal remains were distributed across the feeding area. Immediately, about one hundred Griffon Vultures began to gather in the sky. No doubt such numbers would pull in birds from farther afield and hopefully attract a passing Lammergeier or two as well:
It took about 30 minutes for the first Griffons to land. As soon as the first birds hit the ground, the rest of the flock piled in and a true feeding frenzy began. There were Griffon Vultures everywhere, devouring the meat from the bones and often being drawn into confrontation with others. Below, this is the “glare-and-blink ” display (as described on p77 of BWP vol 2):
The sight and sound of a vulture feeding frenzy at close range is something to behold:
A few Black Vultures (now Cinereous Vulture) also joined the feeding Griffon Vultures. These are dramatic birds with contrasting dark masks, pale bill bases and pale napes:
Within a few hours, the Griffon and Black Vultures had stripped most of the meat from the bones on the feeding site. As these birds began to depart, presumably to digest for a few days, the first Lammergeier appeared in the sky above the ridge. Both immature and adult birds were present in small numbers, but I only had eyes for the adults.
The huge size of adult Lammergeiers in flight is hard to convey. They are enormous birds, the largest in all of Europe. Strangely, my overriding memory from ten years ago is not the sight of these majestic raptors, but the sounds. One of my strongest memories is of sitting in the hide at first light on my second morning. From above and behind the hide came the sound of an enormous pair of wings making a strong downbeat, a deep “whoosh, whoosh”. I felt a primeval fear rising within myself: a huge predator was in the sky behind me and there was nowhere to run! Still, I could see nothing. Then a pause, before more wing beats, whoosh-whoosh, so loud they must be nearly over the hide. Then the sky turned black as a Lammergeier blasted low over the hide and swooped down to take a large bone, before disappearing upwards. There was silence for a few moments before a loud thump to the right told me that the bone had been dropped from a height and smashed, to allow easier access to the nutritious marrow. It was like being in a hide in one of the enclosures in Jurassic Park. I was fully adrenalised!
The adults themselves quickly began to establish some sort of aerial hierarchy. There were frequent aerial confrontations between birds, some defecating and descending with talons outstretched on birds they were pursuing from above:
One pair swooped up to confront each other, locked talons, and spiraled down together, before parting. Aerial battles between such massive birds seemed to take up most of the sky, it was like watching winged-Gods wrestling each other. I sat open-mouthed in absolute awe:
The first Lammergeiers to land were young birds. Lammergeier are extremely shy when on the ground. I expect Pteranodons and Quetzalcoatlus felt the same. Juvenile Lammergeiers have a mostly dark plumage, with slightly paler underparts. The head and neck are solid black. For a brief while, I could see all three common western European vulture species together; (l-r) Griffon Vulture, juvenile Lammergeier and Black Vulture:
The young Lammergeiers began devouring the bones that were left by the meat-loving Griffon and Black Vultures. There seemed to be no limit to how large a bone a Lammergeier can swallow whole. Here a goats’s rib disappears…
… in one! The red eye-ring is aquired at very early age and is present on all birds more than a few months old:
Slightly older birds were the next to arrive. Forsman (“Raptors of Europe and the Middle East” 1999) distinguishes six plumage types in Lammergeier before full adult plumage is acquired. Compared to the image above, the bird below has a greyer face, has very worn greater coverts, and more fresh median wing coverts, making it an older bird, although still a juvenile-type:
Subadult Lammergeir also came in to feed. These birds gradually acquire more of the adult-type plumage. This bird has an adult-like grey crown and black lores, and has some of the adult golden feathering in the nape, legs and underparts. However, the mantle and wing coverts are still mottled and juvenile. It swallowed this section of goat’s spine whole:
Here the protective, transparent nictating membrane can be seen, being drawn across the eye, from front to back:
This sub-adult bird became aggressive, spread its wings, and confronted two immature Lammergeiers. Note the mottled underpart feathering, a mixture of adult and immature feathers. The necklace shown by adult Lammergeiers has not yet developed:
The bones furthest from the hide were eaten first. By my second afternoon in the hide, Lammergeiers came to take the bones closest to the hide, providing some incredible intimate views of a notoriously shy species:
The monstrous size of these birds can be forgotten in portraits. Carrion Crows are simply dwarfed by Lammergeiers, they could scuttle easily between its legs.
Eventually, mature adult birds came down to feed:
Magnificent does not do these birds justice. They were more like mythical Griffins (half-eagle, half-lion) but standing in the flesh before me:
In adults, the wing feathers are all dark. The pale central feather shaft contrasts with the dark upperpart feathers beautifully. The neck and underpart feathering in adults is uniformly golden:
The adult birds were the masters of the remaining bones. They only needed to lift a foot to send the Crows scuttling away. I almost found myself leaning back in the hide too when they walked towards my hiding place:
Apparently, Lammergeiers often form breeding units, rather than pairs. It is not uncommon to have three birds in such a unit.
Seeing adult Lammergeier on the ground at close range is an experience that I will never forget. My memories of the sounds of these birds may last even longer.
Richard Campey, Andy Last and I were meant to be in Shetland this week. However, with our accommodation cancelling our booking two weeks ago due to COVID cases rising and it being illegal in Scotland for members of more than two households to meet indoors, the message from Shetland was clear: come back after the pandemic is over! Richard opted to stay at home in Norfolk, so Andy and I looked around for somewhere nearer where we could still get a taste of autumn migration. With easterly winds and rain forecast all day Saturday, we opted to spend Sunday and Monday at Spurn Point on the Yorkshire coast and expectations were high! At the last minute, Dave Lowe and Wayne Paes, both from Oxford, also decided to travel independently to Spurn and stay locally. We would see both of them in the field over the two days.
On Sunday morning, one of the two Red-flanked Bluetails that were found the day before, was still around Cliff Farm, intermittently dropping down to take insects from the lawn. It was beginning to attract a small crowd, so we did not linger.
Instead, we worked our way around the Kilnsea area, checking bushes, fencelines and the sky for migrant birds. The conditions were perfect and autumn migration was in full swing: there was a constant stream of thrushes and finches passing overhead. Song Thrushes were most numerous, nearly 1000 arrived on Saturday, followed by Redwings. In contrast, very few Blackbirds and hardly any Fieldfares were on the move. Small flocks of Chaffinches, Linnets and Goldfinches passed over all morning and the sound of calling Siskins overhead was ubiquitous.
Dave Lowe and Andy Last on the Canal Path
Good birds came along regularly. We saw two Short-eared Owls, one roosting next to the Canal Path, the other sheltering from the wind behind a hedgerow:
Coming across good numbers of common migrants was a real treat. We saw a total of 3 Whinchat, but most places held Redstarts. It is always lovely to see Redstarts and was special to see Firetails and Bluetail on the same day:
There was a light scattering of Wheatears:
Mediterranean Gulls seem common at Spurn now, they were regular over the Humber:
This apporachable Golden Plover was on the path to Sammy’s Point:
The bushes there held a very late Wood Warbler, an unexpected surprise in October:
Siskins and Lesser Redpolls were everywhere at Sammy’s too, including birds feeding on the verges of the road at our feet:
On Saturday afternoon, we walked south, all the way down Spurn Point:
Andy, Wayne Paes and Dave at The Breach, Spurn Point.
The numbers of migrant Robins on the Point was amazing. There were hundreds, virtually every moving bird would turn out to be a Robin:
After Robins, the commonest birds on the Point were Song Thrushes. The birds arriving on the Yorkshire coast were very different from mainland birds. They had cold grey mantles and a clean, white ground colour to the breast, which seemed to glow white on a grey day:
Black Redstart
Warblers were represented by Chiffchaffs, Blackcaps, the occasional Willow Warbler, one Garden Warbler and one Yellow-browed Warbler.
Chiffchafff, the commonest warbler species on The Point
Raptors seen were Kestrel, Sparrowhawk, Merlin and a fly-through Marsh Harrier, some of which were hunting the Chaffinches, Goldfinches, Siskin and Brambling in the bushes at the end of The Point.
ChaffinchBrambling: The sun sets as we return from the long trek out to The Point. Wet and tired, but happy!
Sunday was a quieter day for overhead migration, but we caught up with a couple of scarce birds. A mobile and elusive Red-breasted Flycatcher at Terminal Wood eventually showed itself, before flicking off through the wood again. The Barred Warbler, originally found by Dave Lowe 13 days ago but still present, could be glimpsed in Listening Dish Hedge:
I recorded 101 species over two days of superb autumn migration. The big find still eluded us, though one of my favourite moments took place in the Crown and Anchor car park on Sunday morning. We had all commented on how we had been expecting more Yellow-browed Warblers to be present, but as yet, we had not seen any. A heavy shower had passed through, followed by sunshine and then a rainbow:
I took the picture above before a movement in the tree on the right caught my eye. A Yellow-browed Warbler was feeding in the branches on the edge of the tree. I called to Dave “Yellow-browed Warbler”
“Where are you looking?” he replied.
I savoured my response: “At the end of the rainbow!” Without doubt, the first time I’ve used a rainbow as a point of reference. And at the end, a nice little pot of Siberian green and gold:
Two recent local patch visits have produced a species that I spent much of last August listening and looking for, but without success: Tree Pipit. This species is a scarce migrant in Oxfordshire, but one that has history in this area. I spoke to Steve Heath early last year. Steve grew up in Cowley and used to watch the Southfield Golf Course area many decades ago. Steve told me that Tree Pipits used to be regular up on the golf course and even now I could see why. The open grassy spaces on top of the hill, the many mature pine trees combined with the sandy bunkers on the golf course, look as if they could tempt a passing migrant Tree Pipit down to investigate.
There was a significant movement of Tree Pipits across England in late August 2019, but despite many hours of observation by myself and Dave Lowe we did not record a Tree Pipit in the Lye Valley area. Last week I was in south Devon and saw, heard and photographed a number of Tree Pipits as they migrated down the coast. Their calls were fresh in my memory as I headed out on Tuesday morning.
Devon Tree Pipits
First encounter: no confirmatory second call
As I descended from the golf course towards the trees of the Lye Valley on 25th August, I was stopped in my tracks by a buzzing “tzeep” flight call of a bird passing high overhead. I immediately called out “Tree Pipit!” I scanned the skies, cupped my ears and listened out another flight call. It never came.
I have long since stopped identifying birds on the basis of “what else could it have been?” If I find myself going down that particular avenue, it simply means that I have not gathered enough evidence to confirm the identification of the bird in question. There must be evidence from my own observation to substantiate the identification. Identification based on ruling everything else out that is not present, is by definition, much less secure.
I reflected that had I been on the Devon coast I would have simply added Tree Pipit to my eBird list and carried on. But in an Oxfordshire context, Tree Pipit was a new species for the Lye Valley area and a species that I had neither seen nor heard in the county. I needed more evidence. I needed the confirmatory second flight call. The one you hear when you are fully alert and listening. Not the first flight call, that can catch an observer unawares, where the mind can play tricks or the wind can distort the call of a more common species. For me, I needed to hear more than one call to reach a satisfactory evidence threshold to add a new species to my patch or county list. I gritted my teeth and headed into the woods.
Second encounter: the confirmatory call!
About eight minutes later, as I passed between the Churchill Hospital and the 18th green of the golf course (this is a strange local patch), I was stopped in my tracks by an explosive buzzing flight call from a bird high overhead. Again I stopped and scanned the skies and listened and this time the flight call was repeated as the bird moved south, sounding just like this recording:
[Albert Lastukhin, XC495491. Accessible at www.xeno-canto.org/495491]
It was a Tree Pipit! And I had heard the second confirmatory call. The one that for me, reduces the risk of an overactive imagination or wind distortion and nails the ID. Tree Pipit was on my patch and county lists. I went home a happy man.
Third encounter: “chip” calls
This morning I was back on the golf course at first light. I was unnaturally optimistic about finding a Redstart for some reason, but as usual drew a blank. As I searched the southern end of the golf course I once again heard the distinctive sound of a Tree Pipit’s standard flight call. This time it was relatively low and I managed to photograph the bird as it circled around overhead.
I watched and listened to it fly over the hilly southern edge of the course before losing sight of the bird. Then I became aware of some high pitched “chip” calls coming from a pipit-like bird flying back north over the golf course. These calls were unfamiliar to me. About 15 minutes later the bird making the “chip” calls flew back overhead, before inserting a classic Tree Pipit flight call between the chips notes. The “chip” calls were Tree Pipit alarm calls, just like this recording:
[B Whyte, XC566189. Accessible at www.xeno-canto.org/566189.]
The Tree Pipit continued flying east and I watched it leave East Oxford and fly until it was lost from view. An instructive morning and a small ambition fulfilled. It is good to know that this hilltop golf course in Oxford city can still attract migrating Tree Pipits in autumn.
I have always enjoyed seeing Rose-coloured Starlings. Their bright pink and black plumage, the contrast with our Common Starlings and even their name, seems exotic and foreign. I saw my first bird in November 1987 in the wonderfully named Surrey village of Christmas Pie. My notes, taken as a feisty 17-year-old, are critical of how bright Rose-coloured Starlings appear in field guides compared to the dull bird that I was watching in Surrey in November. The distinction between their bright summer plumage and their dull winter feathering was clearly lost on me, as I watched the bird, somewhat disappointed.
I now know that in winter Rose-coloured Starlings lose their glossy black tones, especially on the head, where dull grey-pink feathering appears. The bill also changes colour from a sharply demarked black and pink, to a more uniform thrush-like yellow:
Adult winter plumaged Rose-coloured Starling, Oman, November 2015.
In the summer of 2002 I saw two different summer plumaged birds, one at Happisburgh in Norfolk and one at Dawlish Warren in Devon. Both birds were distant, but the Dawlish bird was memorably so. I found myself in the hide at Dawlish with a Yorkshireman, who had moved to Cape May. Richard Crossley went on to produce the photo guides to North American birds that bear his name. Richard was good company and as we chatted a report of a long-staying adult Rose-coloured Starling came through. It was on view on the roof of “the pink house in Starcross” some 1.3 miles (2.25km) distant across the estuary. We trained our ‘scopes on Starcross, found the pink house and were delighted to make out the (absolutely tiny) pink-and-black bird sitting on the tiles of the roof over a mile away! It is still probably the smallest bird that I have seen in the UK.
My next record of Rose-coloured Starling was a juvenile bird in early September 2003 on Lundy. This was a special moment for me as it was the first rarity that I had found in the UK and it was also my birthday. It is a double that I can recommend. Later that same month I saw another juvenile bird at Kelling Water Meadows in Norfolk, before a period of eight Rose-coloured Starlingless years began. This rosé drought was broken in style, by the appearance of two juvenile birds on Lundy at the same time in October 2011. One bird was even feeding in the very same field that I found my first juvenile bird in, eight years beforehand:
Juvenile Rose-coloured Starlings are not rose-coloured. They are the colour of the desert sand and rock where the adults breed in noisy colonies in the countries around the Caspian Sea. In flight the pale rump stands out, but perched they have none of the dramatic colour tones of summer plumaged adults:
Juveniles seem to vary a bit in their plumage tones. One of the two birds present in October 2011 was strikingly pale:
My next experience of the Rosy Pastor was in Oman in November 2015. Here the adults were in their dull pink winter plumage, but now I could appreciate their subtle tones and their funky undertail covert markings:
The adult summer plumaged bird that I saw yesterday in East Challow, Oxfordshire, was the 9th Rose-coloured Starling that I have seen in the UK, but the first summer plumaged adult since the Norfolk and Dawlish birds of 2002. It perched up on a telephone wire with the light behind it, but those pink and black tones still stood out:
I’m still waiting for really good views of an adult summer bird, but its good to have something to look forward to.
