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Seven days, one cancelled flight, over two hundred pictures taken and ten lifers. After one loooong weekend on the Isle of Man, here’s how it all went…
I didn’t have much of a perception of the Isle of Man in advance of my trip. A rocky island in the Irish Sea with stubby cats and lots of motorbikes. As I’d visited in August, the latter was very much the case. There was more leather than a DFS, with an abundance of bikers tearing around the winding roads of the island. Having never even ridden a bike, this was certainly not on my agenda. I’d come with the hope of broadening my ornithological horizons in a location far more north than I was used to. I honestly didn’t know what to expect bird-wise but I knew capercaillie was off the list. My ever-so slight advantage was that I’d be staying with the chief executive of Manx Birdlife (coincidentally the dad of one of my university chums), so I was essentially being given a backstage pass to any of the wildlife the island could offer.
After lugging my bags, camera and telescope from Southend to Gatwick via the new shiny Elizabeth line, I was set for my long haul flight of roughly forty minutes. Upon landing, I got a quick sense of what was in store for the next few days. Craggy coastlines to the left were contrasted with heather-clad hills to the right. I wasn’t in Essex any more. My first car journey also gave a taster for the stunning landscapes that I’d encounter. Slate-piled walls hugged the perimeter of narrow roads with rolling fields of green; unlike the scorched lawns of the southeast. There’s an odd sense of feeling cornered when you visit the Isle of Man. Ireland sits within view to the east, Scotland pokes above the horizon to the north, England’s Lake District sticks out to the west and on a clear day, Anglesey is visible from the south coast. No wonder the Manx people have such pride in their nation, with every other front lawn being adorned with triskelion flags.
It took only an hour to get two lifers in the bag, both in the form of corvids. A boldly beige hooded crow secured tick number one, with a field full of chough confirming the second. Momentous sightings for me at the time that would soon prove to bore me given the numbers I saw subsequently. Surveying from the main land to the Calf of Man, gannets commuted in numbers throughout the afternoon, a fairly unusual sight along the East coast. Despite a brisker breeze, the weather gods looked favourably down upon me, with plenty of generous sunshine. That evening, I’d decided to skim through the local birding journal to draft up my birding wish list. Like a child pencilling an Argos catalogue in December, I was brimming with glee. Some targets were more ambitious than others but the excitement built as I anticipated what could be seen. More lifers were definitely on the cards.
Mornings are not my thing but with the promise of guaranteed rarities, my breakfast was just that bit sweeter. A short drive to Peel Harbour again played host to a double lifer in quick succession. A winter-mottled black guillemot drifted past a flock of eider, ticking two species in one glance. Brief sea-watching accrued fulmar, kittiwake and common guillemot sightings. The latter two of that list were unexpected lifers also. Then, cue the Jaws theme tune. Five basking sharks drifting quite close to shore was a first for me (although not a birding lifer). Regardless of the nerdy perception birdwatching has, you can’t deny the joy of seeing the worlds second largest fish circling in the water before you. Away from the seaside, we headed inland to hunt for hen harriers. With a healthy breeding population, unlike most other parts of the UK, I was a shoe-in to see one. Like Kate Bush, I was running up that hill in search of these raptors but sadly, I had to only settle for shakey, heat-haze warped sightings from the edge of a hillside miles away. Wheatear scuttled at my feet and peregrines glided overhead but despite scouring hen harrier hot-spots, patchy glimpses were all I could manage. A chilled Sunday afternoon preceded an early and hectic start.
Nothing was expected of Monday. Another morning trip took us to an estuary north of Castletown where alongside the rumbling airport, oystercatchers and ringed plovers busily fed amongst the mud. We were greeted by a local twitcher who dropped by in search of curlew sandpipers, just before he was about to visit a site just around the corner. We would follow, but were about ten minutes behind. All of a sudden, a frantic phone call was received followed by a mad dash to this other site. Something has been seen… a biggie. Bigger than a curlew sandpiper. Now I’m not much of a twitcher it has to be said and much to my detriment, this was such a rarity that it went right over my head. It soon became clear that this was a truly astonishing find, not just for the island but for Europe. This was a SHARP-TAILED SANDPIPER and instead of migrating from Eastern Asia to Australia, it was milling around the Irish Sea. Maybe the island’s wallabies made it feel at home! Twitchers flocked from all corners of the island in the coming hours to witness this most tantalising tourist. Several hours were spent surveying the shoreline but you know what, worth it. To have visited whilst the most exciting rarity of the year dropped by was quite the coup. Yes it was a brown wader paddling in the rock pools but you could just tell it was special. Mega.
Tuesday rolled around and with a seemingly golden touch at my fingertips, we trekked to the north of the island with the hope of some sea-watching action. Parking up by the Point of Ayre lighthouse, we almost ran over multiple wheatear as they snuck across the grass. Out into the Irish Sea, gannets glided past shags whilst kittiwakes dodged fulmars. It didn’t take long at all to nab another lifer and one that I was really wishing to see. The one bird that’s named after the island itself, a Manx shearwater! Several floated just above the surface of the sea on their way out to feed. A surprise raft of puffins drifted by, a real treat given they should be well out at sea by the end of August. Inland, we locked course for a set of dense berry-filled hedges. Given the time of year, I thought to myself that this would be perfect wryneck territory. Low and behold about ten minutes later, a wryneck was spotted darting from one tree to another. I didn’t manage a clear view, more a panicked swipe of the binoculars. That counts as a tick, right?
The north of the island proved to be a valuable spot as later that afternoon, we were treated to two separate views of hen harrier. Unlike squinting over a ridge, these birds flew much closer to us, showing off that famous ring-tail. Such incredible birds of prey with sightings that would make most English birders jealous. Tree pipits pinging overhead were another unexpected life tick, meaning I’d scratched off all the boxes on my native pipit bingo card. Another flock of chough chattered away, a species proving more common than pigeons at this rate. Sadly though, our searches to relocate that mornings rarity went awry. Having secured all the sightings I was bound to see (barring some long shots I hoped for), my goal was to get a decent photograph of a chough. Given their prevalence across the island, this would not be a tough task. Alas, these corvids were calling my bluff and after a few hours of scouring one of their favourite beaches, I’d had enough. I went off in a bit of a huff as these rough rocky bays were usually perfect for them.
I was not to be rebuffed. Wednesday, my final day, was set to be my day. If the first beach that we visited was a dud, I was taken to the Langness peninsula, a site where chough were so frequent, they foraged at your feet (or so I was told). Can you guess how many we saw that morning? Well, it was about three and they were dancing distantly beyond the hills. To compensate, we were instead greeted by possibly one of the least discrete rarities that you can find in Britain. A glance from the cliff top to the shoreline allowed excellent views of what is essentially a giant white heron. Great white egrets, whilst slowly increasing in numbers, are still an exciting sighting and a novelty for the Isle of Man. Following a walk to the tip of the peninsula and back, these tame choughs must have stayed at home. From one crow to another though, a raven allowed incredibly close views as it nibbled on a rabbit carcass. Grim, but ever-so-slightly glorious.
Our flight back to the mainland was set for 9pm so we needed to wrap up and pack up in preparation. What a brilliant five days of birding it had been and at that point, I wished I could have stayed longer. Well, in a cruel twist of fate, that flight was cancelled and I was marooned on Man until Friday. Truly brilliant. No fun adventures for me though, another 48 hours that consisted of watching transfer deadline day from dawn until dusk, pizza and plenty of films. A sparrow hawk still decided to swoop into the garden so that was a sweet bonus. By the time Friday evening came around, all of my weather luck had run dry, which was ironic seeing as I was soaked in proper Irish Sea rain. I didn’t bring a coat. I was still soggy by the time I landed in Gatwick.
Barring the late hiccup, this trip was genuinely one of my most enriched experiences of wildlife in the UK. The Isle of Man is not the type of location to draw masses of visitors but eco-tourism-wise, it could well be up there with Northumberland or the Outer Hebrides (not just geographically). Considering I went in a traditionally quiet time of the calendar year, I still witnessed a variety of birds that was unmatched with anything I had seen before. With wildfowl flocking in winter and sea birds gathering in spring, it really is a solid destination all year round. I can’t guarantee mega twitches on every visit but if sky-scraping mountains, glistening beaches, hoards of harriers and sensational sea watching takes your fancy, Man is the Isle for you.
Many thanks to Neil Morris for putting me up for the week and being my expert spotter. Special thanks to Ed for putting up with us for the week!
