The weekend after the Musselburgh trip saw family stuff dominate, with the next week spent patiently taking note of my garden birds during my work from home days. Often this involves putting my phone next to the open living room window and recording on Merlin. Normally reliable, although it once identified the chairwoman of the resident association as a ring-necked parakeet, which in retrospect is fairly accurate. I’ve fallen into a comfortable routine of garden watching and planning/ dreaming about birding trips- trips big small, and of indeterminate size. The onset of spring, the dawn chorus, and general increase in bird life makes this far easier than during the darkest days of December
I also manage to squeeze in some work, in case it turns out my boss is an avid reader.
The next weekend was Mrs GS’s birthday, so family stuff understandably took priority on the Saturday. By Sunday mid- afternoon Mrs GS was perhaps keener on me leaving the house than even I was. Torrential rain earlier that day made me rule out a walk long the Clyde or a trip to the Rotten Calder at Fin Me Oot- I knew instinctively that both rivers would be in spate and therefore bird-free. I was painfully aware, though, that a visit to both was overdue.
I balanced the idea of visiting the Cathkin Braes or Cathkin Marsh SWT with the time it would take to get there. Instead, I opted to stop at Greenoakhill Quarry, one of last year’s biggest (and best) surprises. Although the wind and rain had passed, and most of the clouds had cleared, the sky still seemed bruised and battered, the sun shining weakly, sunlight itself seemingly uncertain about whether to keep trying, or pack it in for the day. I knew that the SUDS ponds had held Reed Bunting last year, and that this was my best chance to get a tick. The walk from the gate held the beginnings of a wall of noise, and bode well for the spring and summer. A Song Thrush sang distantly, as if in defiance of the earlier storm.
I scanned the sky above the motorway for buzzard, but without luck. The water treatment plant had a lot of gull activity, but I couldn’t pick out anything unusual. Avid readers will recall that I’m really, really not a gull expert, so I wouldn’t necessarily rule out that the place was awash with rarities. The path became steadily muddier, and I was forced to take the upper path to the ponds. Greenfinch called faintly, drowned out by the much closer great and blue tits. The ponds themselves looked very full, with the approach path churned into mud by the deep tyres of some construction vehicle. Being an adaptable chap I wandered further along, and with minimal clambering managed to gain access to the narrow path which divides the 2 main ponds. The place which last summer had been so full of life felt hollow in the failing light. The reeds which had held calling reed bunting last summer were deathly quiet.
Maybe its something about the place which overcomes such things, but I had found the relaxed tranquillity of the walk highly enjoyable, therapeutic almost. As is often the way, my positivity was rewarded as my eyes were drawn to the winter skeleton of a tree, with a male reed bunting perched on the flimsiest of flimsy branches, its watery call almost drowned out by the motorway noise. Target bird achieved, year tick duly noted, I stood and watched for as long as it allowed before flying off.
A slow walk back to the car gained few other birds, the noise of the motorway near- deafening now that the spell of the SUDS ponds was broken.
******
By virtue of having accrued loads of flexi time, and an aversion to working too many full weeks in 2025, I had booked the following Tuesday off.
Habit, or the urge to do something ‘big’ on a day off, had me heading back to Musselburgh. I had toyed with the idea of visiting Dunbar and walking to Tyninghame Bay, but grown- up stuff involving my temperamental car meant that I didn’t have time for such a big day. Also, as much as I’m impatient, I also had a feeling that that size of day out would be better delayed until later in March.
The scrapes at Musselburgh held nothing unusual, and nothing new. Sadly, they were also devoid of deer. The absence of any new species meant that I was able to make the most of the species I could see. The scope and decent light combined to give me excellent views of curlew and Oystercatcher and less- brilliant views of redshank.
The walk to the sea wall found no stock dove in the field, and I fear that the invasion of the dog walkers has permanently forced them elsewhere. The sea itself was depressingly quiet. Another reason why I know I’m never going to be a proper sea- watcher: I lack the patience to stare for hours for something to pass briefly into my field of view.
Mother nature, fate, or whatever has a fortunate habit of intervening just when you need it most. The cloud which had been threatening for some time had finally drifted over, killing what had been at best a thin winter sunlit day, and re-imposing the winter gloom. Despite my best efforts, my spirits fell in conjunction with the light levels, and I sighed as the wind picked up, cutting through even my ‘big’ winter jacket. I pressed my eye to the scope, hoping to see something, anything, amidst the choppy waves. Suddenly, I heard an unmistakeable and much missed call from the direction of the new scrapes. Tentatively at first, then full- throated, my first skylark of the year was defying the gloom, defying the bitter chill wind, and had launched into its summer song. The power of this one particular bird to improve even the darkest gloom should never be under-estimated. We can’t see sounds, but if we could skylark song would be bold sunlight piercing through clouds to warm the land.
Hoisting my scope onto my shoulder I hurried along the path toward the new scrapes. Just as an unexpected and particularly vicious hailstorm erupted. Soaked, chilled, and with a face stinging from errant hail- strikes I arrived at the new scrapes fearing for the worst. The hail abated as I arrived, just as suddenly as it had appeared. I set the scope up and began scanning in front of me. Usual selection of oycs, shelduck, teal and wigeon. Lots of birds, not doing much.
I realised what it was about the new scrapes which I couldn’t quite take to- the colour. I’m a mudlark, as avid readers will recall. Mud should be brown, but as the scrapes are formed from an old ashpit, everything is grey. And shingle, rather than mud. My musings were interrupted the resurgence of skylark song. I climbed up onto the ledge to get a vantage point above the wall, more in hope than expectation. Against the odds (my eyesight is a bit naff, and the sky was very grey) I managed to pick out the songbird as it hovered about 30 feet over what in summer will be a sea of ox-eye daisies.
This was the highlight of the day, and although the walk back to Wallyford station along the seas wall was pleasant enough, a reed bunting just off the path being a welcome addition to my day total. Just a single year tick for the visit, but one which meant so much more than just a number.
Buoyed by this I couldn’t wait for the next Saturday. My mind raced with possibilities of where to go, what might I see. Would it be worthwhile trying Dunbar, even on March 1st? Musselburgh again? Aberlady? Even Ayrshire? As an aid to the decision- making process I checked birdtrack for recent sightings. This was both helpful, and no help at all. All 3 Lothian places had had good sightings over the previous couple of days. Ultimately, I opted for Aberlady- it offered the biggest day out, and my last trip had been sort of decent.
Plans laid, tide times checked (although for once, not the weather) and my plan depended on getting the train to Edinburgh at 7am. An abortive owl- hunt in Ayrshire the previous evening had not dampened my enthusiasm one jot, and I was determined to get an early start.
So, having caught the train at 9.30 I found myself ‘slightly’ behind schedule. The bus to Aberlady got me there at 12.30, just as the tide was visibly starting to come in. Undeterred, I made the most of what was on offer. I lasted about 4 minutes before zipping up my jacket and putting gloves on to try and combat the biting cold.
Usual wigeon, teal, shelduck and curlew on the mudflat. Upstream, a couple of redshank skulked on the fringes of the water, while a stunning little egret shone like a beacon of white. I watched it until it flew off upstream, hidden in the dips and hollows the further up it flew.
The walk to the beach was notable for its crows, and not much else. Bullfinches as usual, calling but hidden. As I walked further toward the dunes I was stopped by a couple of walkers, asking the traditional ‘have you seen much.’ Travellers up from south- west England, they were fascinated by having seen the Little Egret, when we both noticed a skylark singing over from the direction of the golf course. The visitor said she was surprised that we had a summer bird singing in temperatures which were barely above freezing. Welcome to birdwatching in Scotland….
Moving on, movement to my right caught my attention, and I saw a reed bunting sitting quietly in a tree. A very faint call, then it flew off toward Gullane Point. To save time I clambered over the dunes and onto the beach, rather than take the more circuitous route. The tide as approaching far quicker than I liked, and I didn’t have much time to get to Gullane Point. A scan along the beach got a flock of oycs, but nothing else.
The wind by now had picked up, and the temperature had noticeably dropped further. I made it to Gullane Point and onto the rocks just ahead of the tide. An initial scan of the sea got a single eider. A scan of the rocks out toward Fidra was a futile exercise. Patience, GS, patience. A more comprehensive scan of the sea got a flock of male red- breasted merganser floating serenely eastward, with a smaller group of 2 females and a single male following shortly behind. Closer inspection got me the expected rafts of eider, the swell of the waves for once making it difficult to pick them out. Rocks close in held the last stragglers of oystercatcher and a handful of turnstone. A pair of redshank didn’t last long as the tide threatened to submerge their rocky outcrop.
One last scan of the beach gained nothing, and it was with disappointment that I trudged back, seeking the ‘fieldfare’ path from a few weeks ago. Having found it, the difference such a short time makes was stark. The ‘cawing’ of corvids had replaced the incessant chacking of the fieldfare. I strained my ears for even the sound of a bullfinch, but to no avail.
I’ve mentioned fate before, or maybe blind luck that shines on the worthy when they least expect it. I had just gotten past the field full of concrete cubes when I glanced over toward the main path. Suddenly, a grey- brown shape exploded from the undergrowth and glided majestically away. A short- eared owl, offering an unmistakable but all- too brief view. I tried to keep up with it as it hugged the terrain, until it faded out of sight. A year tick, and the best of all, an unexpected one. One occasion where the quality of the bird made up for the brevity of the view.
The rest of my journey back to the car park, and my journey back to Uddingston, was a lot happier than expected.
THOUGHTS
I blame birdtrack. I also blame social media. Birdtrack for setting me expectations, social media for telling me the things I miss when birding in other places. Joking aside, its been a good couple of weeks. I’ve managed to get out regularly, little and often. My year list is ticking over, sort of, without being spectacular. I will never, ever get used to the relief or excitement of getting a year tick, whether its something thats a complete surprise, something that I can rely on, or something I had come to despair of. the trick is never to expect anything, to be grateful for your luck, or skill, for ever bird you get, for every birding experience you get. I find comfort in planning my next day out, and the day after, and the day after that, while musing over places that I must go to, or will definitely go to, or should probably go to. I have the rest of the year to plan my days out, and whether whatever expectations I have are met or not, it doesn’t really matter. As long as I’m birding, that’s all that counts.
Stay healthy, stay safe folks.
John
I also manage to squeeze in some work, in case it turns out my boss is an avid reader.
The next weekend was Mrs GS’s birthday, so family stuff understandably took priority on the Saturday. By Sunday mid- afternoon Mrs GS was perhaps keener on me leaving the house than even I was. Torrential rain earlier that day made me rule out a walk long the Clyde or a trip to the Rotten Calder at Fin Me Oot- I knew instinctively that both rivers would be in spate and therefore bird-free. I was painfully aware, though, that a visit to both was overdue.
I balanced the idea of visiting the Cathkin Braes or Cathkin Marsh SWT with the time it would take to get there. Instead, I opted to stop at Greenoakhill Quarry, one of last year’s biggest (and best) surprises. Although the wind and rain had passed, and most of the clouds had cleared, the sky still seemed bruised and battered, the sun shining weakly, sunlight itself seemingly uncertain about whether to keep trying, or pack it in for the day. I knew that the SUDS ponds had held Reed Bunting last year, and that this was my best chance to get a tick. The walk from the gate held the beginnings of a wall of noise, and bode well for the spring and summer. A Song Thrush sang distantly, as if in defiance of the earlier storm.
I scanned the sky above the motorway for buzzard, but without luck. The water treatment plant had a lot of gull activity, but I couldn’t pick out anything unusual. Avid readers will recall that I’m really, really not a gull expert, so I wouldn’t necessarily rule out that the place was awash with rarities. The path became steadily muddier, and I was forced to take the upper path to the ponds. Greenfinch called faintly, drowned out by the much closer great and blue tits. The ponds themselves looked very full, with the approach path churned into mud by the deep tyres of some construction vehicle. Being an adaptable chap I wandered further along, and with minimal clambering managed to gain access to the narrow path which divides the 2 main ponds. The place which last summer had been so full of life felt hollow in the failing light. The reeds which had held calling reed bunting last summer were deathly quiet.
Maybe its something about the place which overcomes such things, but I had found the relaxed tranquillity of the walk highly enjoyable, therapeutic almost. As is often the way, my positivity was rewarded as my eyes were drawn to the winter skeleton of a tree, with a male reed bunting perched on the flimsiest of flimsy branches, its watery call almost drowned out by the motorway noise. Target bird achieved, year tick duly noted, I stood and watched for as long as it allowed before flying off.
A slow walk back to the car gained few other birds, the noise of the motorway near- deafening now that the spell of the SUDS ponds was broken.
******
By virtue of having accrued loads of flexi time, and an aversion to working too many full weeks in 2025, I had booked the following Tuesday off.
Habit, or the urge to do something ‘big’ on a day off, had me heading back to Musselburgh. I had toyed with the idea of visiting Dunbar and walking to Tyninghame Bay, but grown- up stuff involving my temperamental car meant that I didn’t have time for such a big day. Also, as much as I’m impatient, I also had a feeling that that size of day out would be better delayed until later in March.
The scrapes at Musselburgh held nothing unusual, and nothing new. Sadly, they were also devoid of deer. The absence of any new species meant that I was able to make the most of the species I could see. The scope and decent light combined to give me excellent views of curlew and Oystercatcher and less- brilliant views of redshank.
The walk to the sea wall found no stock dove in the field, and I fear that the invasion of the dog walkers has permanently forced them elsewhere. The sea itself was depressingly quiet. Another reason why I know I’m never going to be a proper sea- watcher: I lack the patience to stare for hours for something to pass briefly into my field of view.
Mother nature, fate, or whatever has a fortunate habit of intervening just when you need it most. The cloud which had been threatening for some time had finally drifted over, killing what had been at best a thin winter sunlit day, and re-imposing the winter gloom. Despite my best efforts, my spirits fell in conjunction with the light levels, and I sighed as the wind picked up, cutting through even my ‘big’ winter jacket. I pressed my eye to the scope, hoping to see something, anything, amidst the choppy waves. Suddenly, I heard an unmistakeable and much missed call from the direction of the new scrapes. Tentatively at first, then full- throated, my first skylark of the year was defying the gloom, defying the bitter chill wind, and had launched into its summer song. The power of this one particular bird to improve even the darkest gloom should never be under-estimated. We can’t see sounds, but if we could skylark song would be bold sunlight piercing through clouds to warm the land.
Hoisting my scope onto my shoulder I hurried along the path toward the new scrapes. Just as an unexpected and particularly vicious hailstorm erupted. Soaked, chilled, and with a face stinging from errant hail- strikes I arrived at the new scrapes fearing for the worst. The hail abated as I arrived, just as suddenly as it had appeared. I set the scope up and began scanning in front of me. Usual selection of oycs, shelduck, teal and wigeon. Lots of birds, not doing much.
I realised what it was about the new scrapes which I couldn’t quite take to- the colour. I’m a mudlark, as avid readers will recall. Mud should be brown, but as the scrapes are formed from an old ashpit, everything is grey. And shingle, rather than mud. My musings were interrupted the resurgence of skylark song. I climbed up onto the ledge to get a vantage point above the wall, more in hope than expectation. Against the odds (my eyesight is a bit naff, and the sky was very grey) I managed to pick out the songbird as it hovered about 30 feet over what in summer will be a sea of ox-eye daisies.
This was the highlight of the day, and although the walk back to Wallyford station along the seas wall was pleasant enough, a reed bunting just off the path being a welcome addition to my day total. Just a single year tick for the visit, but one which meant so much more than just a number.
Buoyed by this I couldn’t wait for the next Saturday. My mind raced with possibilities of where to go, what might I see. Would it be worthwhile trying Dunbar, even on March 1st? Musselburgh again? Aberlady? Even Ayrshire? As an aid to the decision- making process I checked birdtrack for recent sightings. This was both helpful, and no help at all. All 3 Lothian places had had good sightings over the previous couple of days. Ultimately, I opted for Aberlady- it offered the biggest day out, and my last trip had been sort of decent.
Plans laid, tide times checked (although for once, not the weather) and my plan depended on getting the train to Edinburgh at 7am. An abortive owl- hunt in Ayrshire the previous evening had not dampened my enthusiasm one jot, and I was determined to get an early start.
So, having caught the train at 9.30 I found myself ‘slightly’ behind schedule. The bus to Aberlady got me there at 12.30, just as the tide was visibly starting to come in. Undeterred, I made the most of what was on offer. I lasted about 4 minutes before zipping up my jacket and putting gloves on to try and combat the biting cold.
Usual wigeon, teal, shelduck and curlew on the mudflat. Upstream, a couple of redshank skulked on the fringes of the water, while a stunning little egret shone like a beacon of white. I watched it until it flew off upstream, hidden in the dips and hollows the further up it flew.
The walk to the beach was notable for its crows, and not much else. Bullfinches as usual, calling but hidden. As I walked further toward the dunes I was stopped by a couple of walkers, asking the traditional ‘have you seen much.’ Travellers up from south- west England, they were fascinated by having seen the Little Egret, when we both noticed a skylark singing over from the direction of the golf course. The visitor said she was surprised that we had a summer bird singing in temperatures which were barely above freezing. Welcome to birdwatching in Scotland….
Moving on, movement to my right caught my attention, and I saw a reed bunting sitting quietly in a tree. A very faint call, then it flew off toward Gullane Point. To save time I clambered over the dunes and onto the beach, rather than take the more circuitous route. The tide as approaching far quicker than I liked, and I didn’t have much time to get to Gullane Point. A scan along the beach got a flock of oycs, but nothing else.
The wind by now had picked up, and the temperature had noticeably dropped further. I made it to Gullane Point and onto the rocks just ahead of the tide. An initial scan of the sea got a single eider. A scan of the rocks out toward Fidra was a futile exercise. Patience, GS, patience. A more comprehensive scan of the sea got a flock of male red- breasted merganser floating serenely eastward, with a smaller group of 2 females and a single male following shortly behind. Closer inspection got me the expected rafts of eider, the swell of the waves for once making it difficult to pick them out. Rocks close in held the last stragglers of oystercatcher and a handful of turnstone. A pair of redshank didn’t last long as the tide threatened to submerge their rocky outcrop.
One last scan of the beach gained nothing, and it was with disappointment that I trudged back, seeking the ‘fieldfare’ path from a few weeks ago. Having found it, the difference such a short time makes was stark. The ‘cawing’ of corvids had replaced the incessant chacking of the fieldfare. I strained my ears for even the sound of a bullfinch, but to no avail.
I’ve mentioned fate before, or maybe blind luck that shines on the worthy when they least expect it. I had just gotten past the field full of concrete cubes when I glanced over toward the main path. Suddenly, a grey- brown shape exploded from the undergrowth and glided majestically away. A short- eared owl, offering an unmistakable but all- too brief view. I tried to keep up with it as it hugged the terrain, until it faded out of sight. A year tick, and the best of all, an unexpected one. One occasion where the quality of the bird made up for the brevity of the view.
The rest of my journey back to the car park, and my journey back to Uddingston, was a lot happier than expected.
THOUGHTS
I blame birdtrack. I also blame social media. Birdtrack for setting me expectations, social media for telling me the things I miss when birding in other places. Joking aside, its been a good couple of weeks. I’ve managed to get out regularly, little and often. My year list is ticking over, sort of, without being spectacular. I will never, ever get used to the relief or excitement of getting a year tick, whether its something thats a complete surprise, something that I can rely on, or something I had come to despair of. the trick is never to expect anything, to be grateful for your luck, or skill, for ever bird you get, for every birding experience you get. I find comfort in planning my next day out, and the day after, and the day after that, while musing over places that I must go to, or will definitely go to, or should probably go to. I have the rest of the year to plan my days out, and whether whatever expectations I have are met or not, it doesn’t really matter. As long as I’m birding, that’s all that counts.
Stay healthy, stay safe folks.
John