Garden Birds You Won’t See In Your Garden*

 *Huge caveats lie ahead.

Garden birds, by the very name, are simple to define as a group. Birds you generally find in a garden. Easy, right? With the RSPB’s big garden birdwatch on the horizon, it’s soon time to dust off the binoculars and give the patio doors a good scrub, ahead of an hour endlessly staring at sparrows. The greatest citizen science project on Earth is beloved by the nation and by all accounts, it’s largely due to the ease of it. No hides or hikes, a sofa will do. The most important part is the publics knowledge of garden birds, a common and colourful collective that’s evoked ornithological passions for generations. Forget pigeon-holing species by family, garden birds are grouped by simply the idea of being seen scampering on a lawn or hanging on a feeder, for example. Tea towels, posters, jigsaws; you name it. Everyone is unanimous in what a garden bird really is.

Hang on, are we though? Stalwarts such as blackbirds and starlings are undisputed but where is the border? The answer is, the line is grey and murky. So, to crack on, here is my definitive list of garden birds you’ll never see in your garden.

I hear you ask, if the definition is so broad, how can I even quantify this? Well, by combining every list of perceived garden birds that I can find, here are the clear outliers. The huge caveat, of course, is that it’s not impossible to see them, it’s just hugely unlikely. Capercaillies are obviously out but this is more an assessment of whether they can be a true garden friend, alongside robins and wrens. Ask yourself, is the garden the most obvious place to see this species, or is it better associated with somewhere else? Okay I promise, I’ll crack on now…

NUTHATCH

This may be my East Anglian bias but I don’t know a single British garden that regularly welcomes nuthatches. I admit, they’re far more populous up north but even then, they tend to be broad-leaf forest specialists. Unless you literally live in a treehouse, I’m not allowing these guys as certified gardeners. They belong in the woods, far from the cheesy gnomes and greenhouses. If you happen to have nuthatches frequent your feeders daily, feel free to fight me (or enlighten me).

BLACKCAP 

These guys are firmly branded as garden birds these days, why though? They’re WARBLERS. I simply refuse to allow a warbler to be considered a garden bird. BaCk In My DaY… they were an exotic summer migrant you’d spot in parks and woodlands. Now, thanks to our dear friend climate change clenching its grip, blackcaps stay in Britain all year round. Don’t ask me if I’ve ever seen one in my garden, that would undermine my point. Visitor to gardens, certainly. Resident of gardens? Too far.

BRAMBLING

An easy assumption to make, given most other finches are guaranteed garden ticks yet any birder will tell you that a wintertime visit from a brambling would warrant a gasp and a dance. A seed consumer like their cousins means they do sometimes pay a garden visit, however putting them on the same level as golds and chaffs is an over-exaggeration. If it could just as well be twitched, it has no place on the pedestal of garden birds. 0.4% of UK gardens recorded bramblings in the 2022 birdwatch, proving my point really. Far too niche.

TREECREEPER 

They’re small and brown so that basically makes them as valid as dunnocks. I’m using the same excuse as the nuthatch here but if you’re genuinely crediting a treecreeper as a garden bird, I need some tips. Yes, I’ve seen plenty of treecreepers in my time but only ever in dense wooded areas, never sneaking up a lawn-side ash tree. These timid trunk-scuttlers would never visit you if you have anything less than two trees in your garden, so basically, most of the population. They don’t eat mealworms or peanuts so they ain’t got no time for your food. Lifetime ban from garden bird accreditation.

GREY  WAGTAIL

I can’t wrap my head around this one. Do not be confused with pied wagtails, which just about make the cut given their widely accepted urban status. The greys, for me, are a far more obscure rural dweller, akin to bobbing along babbling streams. Our towns and cities just aren’t suited for these yellow-flanked bouncers and, despite having seen one from my garden, I’d count that as a rarity. They tick that box of being small and relatively common but I refuse to label them as ‘garden’ dwellers. You’d need quite the pond to entice them anyway, a simple bird bath won’t do.

SWIFT

Honestly, fight me. I’m well up for it. Come at me. Before you do though, hear me out. If we’re going by the rules of the BGBW, only birds that land in your garden can be recorded, no flyovers. Granted, no one will have ever seen a swift, given the survey is always in January, but at no point should one be counted. A swift isn’t ever seen in the close vicinity of a garden and no, a nest hole on your house wall doesn’t count. In defence of the swift, it would be rude to pin them down to gardens, they are the eternal wanderers of the sky! They go wherever they want, not just above our backyards. They’re better than garden birds, literally above them.

Well that’s my list cracked on with and whilst the full UK birdwatch list from 2022 also threw up some other weird outliers (grey partridges, barn owls and corn buntings?!), I think the above candidates meet the brief. Did I miss any in your opinion? Let me know!!!!

Official: The LEAST Christmassy Birds

 It’s Christmas time, there’s no need to be afraid. Yes, ya boi is back on the blog isn’t he. In a blog from a couple of years ago, I put forward a case for a number of British birds to be regarded higher with respects to Christmas. Penguins and robins are boring anyway, so why not have some alternatives? If you haven’t read that blog, go back and quickly read it. Now. QUICK.

Ok welcome back. Good, wasn’t it? Anyway enough of that nonsense, I’m channeling my inner grinch and wondering; what are the LEAST Christmassy birds? Which species evoke little to no festive cheer and deserve no place on the mantelpiece in December? Disclaimer, I’m not saying these birds are terrible or should be ridiculed in any way, they’re just not the type that you’d find made into a bauble or stitched into a sweater. Let’s ho ho go…

SWIFT

Unless you live below the Sahara, you’ll be unlikely to see one of these sky-dancers at this time of year. After all, Africa doesn’t even know it’s Christmas at all… right? Swifts are synonymous with clear blue sunny skies and screaming as they skim your rooftop. They’re hardly representative of the usually dour winter weather we’re acclimatised to. If a swift ever saw a snowflake, it would probably have a panic attack. Pop a swift in your nativity scene? Rogue choice.

BEE EATER

They may be adorned in multi-colour plumage and they do dazzle like tinsel but they are the LAST thing you’d consider when pondering Yule-tide. Despite their increasing presence across the UK, replacing them in place of partridges is a step too far. A romantic ideal Christmas involves gentle snowfall, so a bird invading the country owing to climate change is a big middle finger to all things mid-winter. Big NO.

CARRION CROW

The red of Santa, the green of holly and the white of snow; all quintessential Christmas colour palettes. It comes as no surprise that a bird draped in black from talon to bill is miles from being associated with the festive period. At a time all about new life and spending time with family, carrion crows just kill the mood. You can forgive jays or magpies for being ever-so-slightly more jolly but their monochrome cousins can’t make the cut. They should just stick to Halloween, they’re banned from owning two separate holidays.

GOSHAWK

These absolute units should be admired at all times of the year, that’s a fact. Sadly, as endearing as those piercing eyes and gruesome talons are, they’re not the most merry of birds. Just imagine one of their plucking posts, adorned with feathers and limbs of its prey, with a giant adult female stood proudly with wings aloft over a merciless carcass. Awesome, right? But the year you put that on a Christmas card is the last year you’ll expect one in return. Sorry guys, goshawks aren’t Christmassy.

HERRING GULL

It’s actually ridiculous to even think about how these guys can be remotely festive. They’re gregarious chip-guzzlers that are synonymous with childhood trips to the coast, not singing along to Mariah. Despite having appropriately-coloured plumage and being widely found across December in Britain, they give off such an unchristmassy vibe. Unless you traditionally spend Christmas in Brighton, herring gulls should have no part to play on the big day.

There are plenty of winters birds that tick a lot of festive boxes but these species certainly fall short. Are there any others that I’ve missed? Do let me know…

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!

THE TRIMINGHAM BEE EATERS - REASONS TO BE CHEERFUL?

Picture the scene; it’s the 20th of July. It’s a day after the UK has sweltered under near 40°c heat. Every blade of grass in sight is tinged in parched brown whilst thunderstorms roll across the distant horizon. You recall, you get the picture. This was the day I begged to be driven from South to North Norfolk in the hope of ticking off a lifer. An hour and a half later, arriving at what was essentially a dusty field, doubt crept into my mind. What if the conditions aren’t right? What if they’re too far away? What if they’ve already left? Do I have enough battery in my camera? (I didn’t.) As we trekked under the imposing sun along a dirt path, the sweat beads that dripped were not solely reserved for the conditions. We greeted a studious volunteer with the traditional blue of the RSPB and asked the hallowed question: Where can we see the bee eaters?

‘Oh, they’re just over there’, he said.

He wasn’t wrong. Over there they were.

One sat on a telegraph wire alongside a flock of goldfinches, as if it were part of the furniture. Another flitted from beyond the hedgerow to their quarry-cavity cubbyhole. The weather that day not far off the Mediterranean, fitting really. These birds had become minor celebrities and unlike most rarities, they were obliging. Dancing against the azure skies in pursuit of their buzzing prey, chirruping away to one another as if this was a perfectly normal spot to call home. It wasn’t a tropical riverbank, it was a sandy cliff surrounded by brambles and machinery. The relative mundane East Anglian backdrop perfectly contrasting with these gloriously bold birds. (I’m allowed to say this, I’m Norfolk born and bred.) The golden question really is, can we enjoy it?

The obvious answer on paper is yes, duh. An incredibly rare bird nesting successfully in the UK? It’s the stuff of dreams for conservationists, surely? However, if we want to throw reality in the mix, it is an indicator of what future summers will look like. As our climate becomes more akin to the south of Spain, Mediterranean species will follow. It’s one thing for more sightings to be noted but for bee eaters to feel so at home that they actually decide to stay, that does create question marks. If it was a one off, we could perhaps treat it as a unique anomaly, but with recording breeding attempts in 2014, 2015, 2017 and now 2022, that’s what we can safely call a trend. There had only been four records in the 50 years prior to this. Getting warm much?

The fact is that continental shifts are happening not just in UK bird species but in flora and fauna across the globe. Bee eaters just so happen to be poster boys for this, given their flamboyant style. Earlier flowering trees are triggering insects to emerge sooner, meaning food webs are becoming out of sync for their predators. This is just one of many ecological catastrophes on our doorstep, alongside our favourite wasp assassins. Not to undermine the situation, but branding bee eaters as the harbingers of global warming feels a bit like closing the stable door after the horse has bolted. It is a genuine worry that shouldn’t be swept under the carpet, but what can we do about it?

To play devils advocate for the devils advocate, and go right back to where I started, but bee eaters are just awesome. There was not one birder that visited Trimingham that was underwhelmed upon laying eyes on these glorious migrants. As a collaborative event that drew nature lovers from all corners of the nation, it was quite the summer. For the critics of promoting a bird that symbolises a slowly boiling planet, one could argue the heightened media attention was a valuable PR exercise. As much as it was glorifying a rare species, there’s much to be said about the conversation it spawned regarding climate change. There’s a reason why this blog is being written in the first place. I always say the most powerful weapon in modern conservation is education, so there’s no harm is spreading the word.

At the most simple level, it was an amazing afternoon for me. A truly memorable sighting in my home county, it couldn’t have been much better. Following so many holidays to Spain, it was the Costa Del Cromer that provided the setting for my maiden bee eater sighting. For a moment, I considered it to be a once in a life time experience, but as we all know, it likely won’t be long until they’re perched on my bird bath. Their presence is undeniably unnerving but their arrival brought birders together and generally made everyone who saw them smile. The bee eater hype was real and they joy they brought is impossible to ignore.

BIRDWATCHING IS WEIRD.

I get this a lot. 

Even if I’m not told this directly, it’s certainly the vibe. My Instagram lit up as soon as I posted about my engagement but as soon as it was back to goldfinches, the hype died down. The gist I feel is that it’s not a particularly scintillating past-time, contrary to how I feel anyway. My colleagues genuinely described the hobby of birdwatching as ‘strong boomer energy’. Fantastic. The question really is, who is right? It’s obscure, but is it ‘odd’? The many outweigh the few in terms of strong opinions on the matter but does that make them right? What makes watching Attenborough amazing but Packham and Co. pathetic? Let’s dig into this…

We’re all environmentalists

In our minds, we all draw metaphorical lines. We care about things to different levels, which is completely fine. I can enjoy watching Norwich play but I wouldn’t get a tattoo of a canary on my chest. Most people would have strong socio-political opinions on certain topics but few would have the willpower to protest or take direct action. The term ‘arm-chair environmentalists’ is a poignantly true label in this regard. Much respect is rightly handed to climate scientists or green activists but birders with eco-consciousness are disregarded. If I branded myself as an environmental studies graduate, in line with my degree, ears would prick. Branding myself as a birdwatcher simply results in wry smiles. In spite of contributing to charity, protesting in favour of animal welfare and ultimately busting a gut to raise awareness of ecological issues, I’m looked down on because I also like identifying ducks. If every last bird in Britain disappeared, with a traffic-filled dawn chorus, empty gardens and soulless wetlands, maybe then society would care. Every birder on Earth has the health of their planet close to their heart but for bystanders, of whom environmental issues are pressing yet confusing, wildlife lovers are just ‘bunny-huggers’ or fuddy-duddy bird nerds. It is correct that I’m not as green as Greta, but a longing for a healthy world with thriving wildlife is a shared passion.

We’re all animal lovers

Dogs are man’s best friend, cats are adorable companions but waxwings and wagtails are weird. The hypocritical struggles are real. It is fair that a day out in Welney may not have the same draw as the Amazon or the Okavango but the point is still there, to revel in the wonder of nature. Ducks and geese may not be as traditionally exciting as ungulates or big cats but just because people may like seeing birds instead, that’s deemed to be unusual. It begs the question, at what point does an animal become ‘cool’? Do flamingoes count? They’re big and colourful, so do cranes or bustards count? If eagles are universally awesome, how about goshawks? The unfortunate reality is that not every animal that’s ever existed can be planted into our brains at an early age. We build comfort zones in our heads about what wildlife we know and anything beyond that is alien. The issue, really, is why there is this refusal to embrace new knowledge. I mention an osprey or a bittern to non-naturalists and their minds blank. Our fixation with organisms other than us is part of the very fabric of human history, so to distance ourselves from embracing it goes against everything that’s come before us. Basically, birds are animals, at the end of the day and seeing them is fun.

We all love the great outdoors

There is literally a successful retail brand called Go Outdoors. Hiking is a super-trendy and athletic activity that is highly regarded by the general public. The moment you wear hiking boots with the intention of ‘just’ going to a nature reserve, you’re peculiar. Birdwatching isn’t just about ticking a list, so much of it is fresh air, seasonal scents and vitamin D. Any suggestion of ‘going for a walk’ is usually greeted with agreement but any mention of binoculars warrants derision. The unspoken rules of walking that society have set in stone specify that stopping to engage with nature at any point is banned. No halting to gaze at greylag geese or spot sparrows, people have places to be. The logic that animals must not be admired, despite our widespread love for animals, as discussed, is baffling to me. Agreed, stopping to poke every fungus or scanning every canopy for treecreepers can be draining but any deviation from simply a sanitised ‘walk’ is scolded. If you wanted to get your steps in, minus flora and fauna, why not buy a treadmill?

We all love novelty

Sentimentality is an interesting subject to analyse. Deep down, it’s rooted within us and it’s essentially the basis for birdwatching. Ornithologists live for the obscure, that’s what drives us. A rarity, a lifer or a notable sighting gets the blood pumping but of course, it’s only birds, so why would that make any sense. We can all recall where we were at the breaking of major news, we all support the underdog and we all feel FOMO. These are all emotions that the public and birders share alike. Everyone also seeks to be different, so as not to conform to a monotonous, repetitive society. The longing to feel unique aside from being only a statistic is the very motivation to find exclusive quirks. Whether we like it or not, humans love finding things that others don’t like. Context is also key and whilst exclaiming about seeing a white headed duck might register barely an eyebrow raise, mentioning you’ve just seen one of the most endangered species in Europe garners a more distinct reaction. I was there and I saw something that very few others have been lucky to see. As climate changes and biodiversity crises continue, seeing certain wildlife will become more of a treat. However, envy will evidently be replaced with indifference.

We all have hobbies

We would all be bored otherwise. Birding can’t compare to learning a musical instrument or perfecting a sport yet still, it surely can’t be that random. If a day out in the wilderness was so bizarre, why are there literally thousands of nature reserves? Not everyone shares mutual interests, and that’s fine, but a hobby shouldn’t be judged on the basis that a minority of the public supports it. Football fans travel halfway across the country just to see their team potentially lose after a 90 minute match, is that weird? I fear this is an issue beyond merely birding, whereby niche interests are somewhat lambasted, whether it be Warhammer or stamp collecting. What is the benefit to bringing other people down just because they like something slightly different to the norm? I find going to the gym constantly is a less than enjoyable way to spend my time, for other reasons though. In the end, it comes down to that golden phrase that Jose Mourinho loves: respect.

If the argument is that birdwatching is for ‘old people’, why does this instantly ban younger audiences from enjoying it too? If the argument is that keeping lists and buzzing about seasonal changes is peculiar, does this make nostalgia illegal? If wildlife photographers are fascinating, is it only interesting if the moment in nature is captured on a Nikon? I could have this argument all day long, try me.

After reading this, I’m sure you’ll have no choice but to agree that birdwatching isn’t weird. I’ll expect to see you out with your bins on Sunday.

WHAT A MAN - My Memorable Manx Week

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!

IF BIRDS WENT ON LOVE ISLAND…

That time of year is upon us whereby you can segway from an hour of Springwatch to ITV2 for another hour of everyone’s hidden guilty pleasure: LOVE ISLAND. This isn’t high brow, Attenborough level content but it’s seemingly fascinating enough. The colourful courtship rituals of these so-called ‘influencers’ capture the attention of a nation for a whole summer but in the wider context of creatures on Earth, humans are quite dull. Birds on the other hand have a weird array of pulling techniques which got me thinking: which species of British bird would crack on with ease and who would be dumped from the island? There is no better group of animals to chirps their partners, trust me. It’s time for a metaphorical migration to Mallorca…

MALLARD

Let’s start with these bad boys. A familiar face that gets top billing on this list. A splash of colour and an addiction to carbs, how ruddy relatable? These absolute dons would couple up easily enough and with the prospect of adorbs ducklings, what could possibly go wrong? Well, they would surely get a tap on the wing from an ITV producer as their mating techniques take full force. To put it bluntly, their aggressive approach to flirtation, often in pugnacious gangs, would not be appropriate for even after the watershed. They’d be booted off after two episodes with Ian explaining they needed to return home ‘due to an ill relative’.

DUNNOCK

I wouldn’t hedge your bets on these guys. They don’t fit the usual requirements of a refined, hunky singleton, instead dressed in all brown and grey. What they lack in outward beauty is more than made up for in raw charisma. These birds know a thing or two about grafting and certainly have several notches on their bedpost. They have been known to copulate more than a hundred times a day, now that is cracking on. The flip side of what could be a steamy night in the hideaway is that each ‘session’ probably lasts for a fraction of a second. Barely time to catch your breath, literally. They would fail to entertain the public with form like that and end up being voted off first. It is what it is.

GUILLEMOT

On paper, sure fire winners. Sleek build, eyeliner on point and loves the beach. A perfect candidate with near enough Olympic diving credentials. Everyone loves an athlete. On the surface, they come across as passionate lovers, bonding during their courtship. They’d surely go through rocky patches, mostly because these tend to be ideal nesting habitats. However, as always, there’s a twist. This is a species that may look monogamous but the females fail to understand the meaning of the word. Adultery is rife amongst the colonies of these audacious auks and while it makes intrinsic biological sense for the birds, it would result in explosive arguments by the fire pit. It’s the type of content that we’d all secretly love to see. I reckon they’d make it to Casa Amore before all hell breaks loose. Congrats, hun.

GREAT CRESTED GREBE

You would find these glorious birds splashing in the pool more than you would find them lazing on the sun beds. With a frizzy barnet and ‘dark features’, they would comfortably win the hearts of everyone and definitely cause a bit of in-fighting. The hilarity is that turning heads is all part of their courtship routine. Put it this way, if there was a dancing challenge, they would win wings down. Even after their elegant mating ritual, male grebes still woo their lovers with bouquets of pondweed. Who said that gifts aren’t the route to the heart? Even when chicks have hatched, both parents stick together and even let their babies sail on their back. This level of devotion would see them get all the way to the final surely. 

WHITE TAILED SEA EAGLE

The closest we can go to call a bird fierce, these gargantuan predators are bulked up like personal trainers. They would intimidate without a doubt and they’d probably prefer pulling mackerel from the sea rather than pulling someone else for a chat. If you’d want to know where their heads where at, it would probably be dodging crows or finding a perfect pine forest to glide over. Whilst other birds boldly proclaim to mate for life, these eagles are legit. You wouldn’t be mugged off by one of these lot, who are famously serially monogamous. Again, masters of the dance floor, their aerial acrobatics help with wooing a partner and they stay together throughout the upbringing of the chicks. With a lifespan of over twenty years, they’re in for the long haul. Til death do they part, although an islander passing away wouldn’t make great tele. A bonifide fan favourite but perhaps pipped to the post at the last moment?

MUTE SWAN

The boss level for coupling up. These no-nonsense monsters would stir up the vibes in the villa and take no prisoners. They would make their presence known and try as hard as they can to oust any competition. No one likes violence but the odd swan bust-up would send Twitter ablaze. Despite their stern outlook, they would turn out to be gentle when it comes to love. More adorable courtship is sure to stem the odd tear or two. When nesting comes around, they take a leaf out of Cheryl’s book and fight for their love. Anyone remotely walking near them get an earful and whilst it’s not pleasant, it’s refreshing to see a couple standing up for one another. They’d win Love Island by a landslide, share the money and come back to two million Instagram followers each. Cob and Peng.

So that’s my take on this, but I wonder what the public thinks? Got any saucier suggestions? Let me know down below.

Adios…

ESPAÑA ESCAPADE

 ¡HOLA

As you can see, I’m now fluent in Spanish. Such as the joys of four days away in Malaga. I am now back in the UK and genuinely considered turning the heating on. It’s June. So, what did I get up to? The usual combination of chillaxing and sunburning but that wasn’t all. I somehow managed to stuff binoculars in my hand luggage because of course, I went birding. I couldn’t resist. Most tourists barely bat an eyelid at the bounty of beautiful birdlife that Spain has to offer but I was fully geared up to soak it in. Normal people research decent restaurants and where the best attractions are. Me? I googled where are the nearest nature reserves and where I can find a hoopoe. I was so ready.

Malaga is an ideal tourist destination. Long beaches, baking sunshine and it’s also one of the three places that (London) Southend Airport flies to. Not bad when it’s ten minutes from your door. Even better when airport security only takes you FIVE MINUTES. I could’ve arrived fifteen minutes before the plane left the tarmac and still had time to browse duty free. What an airport. So if you want to fly to (checks notes) MALLORCA or DUBLIN then you’d also be in for a treat. Anywhere else and Stansted or Gatwick will have to do.

A two and a half hour flight saw me quickly swap drizzle for sizzling temperatures. It was well hot. Might be too hot. After what felt like a day navigating the steep steps of Torremolinos, which may have well been a Super Mario map, we finally dumped our luggage and could try and relax. I however had a sore neck from constantly checking the skies. Rare birds are difficult to see in England at the best of times but my Spain logic was that booted eagles and wallcreepers would land at my feet. I lived in hope. What I soon learned was that everything is not as it seemed when even looking at pretty plain birds. The monstrous gulls circling overhead weren’t herrings, they were yellow-legs. The gregarious common starlings were in fact spotless starlings. There were pallid swifts mingling with their common cousins. Even the invasive parakeets were different from those that flock in London. The arguably boring stuff here was a British twitchers gold-dust.

While everyone else holidaying on the Costa Del Sol was looking forward to tapas and sangria, I was itching to visit a nature reserve I had earmarked as being somewhere special. With the prospect of otters, flamingos and one of Europe’s most endangered species… I couldn’t resist. The mouth of the Guadalhorce river was right next to the airport and flanked a busy motorway, so it was pretty much Rainham Marshes on steroids. I figured that if I was going to see anything half decent, I needed to wake up at the crack of dawn. Begrudgingly, for the birds, I did so. One short Uber and I’d landed in what felt like a ridiculously rural backwater. Good. The less people the better. Upon walking up to the entrance, it was impossible to ignore the grandeur of the landscapes surrounding me. Imposing mountains with dotted villas at their feet surrounded me, with the Mediterranean Sea itself glistening in the morning sunshine. If I saw nothing today, it was still worth it.

As I crossed the river into the main body of the reserve, the connecting bridge served as something of a service station for swifts and hirundines. I had to duck to avoid the onrushing swallows and house martins. As much as these are standard British species, I couldn’t help but think of how unlikely it would be to see these scenes back at home. It really cemented how dire the biodiversity in the UK has become. A bit further along, I was drawn to a small flock of yellow passerines chattering away in a bush just off the path. Yellowhammers? Siskins? Definitely not. Serins. This is a species that even the most seasoned birder would jump in joy for and they were literally feet away. Early doors and I’d already ticked a lifer off the list.

Amongst the cacophony of Sardinian warblers, I’d reached my first hide. The sight of black winged stilts gliding overheard indicated that I was near water, just what I needed. The one endangered rarity I hoped of seeing loved lakes such as this but of course, knowing my luck, I’d likely be unsuccessful. Globally, their population is only at 10,000 and bred infrequently in Spain. It was a bird that if I managed to see, I’d likely never see again. One lift of my binoculars and there they were. A flock of white headed ducks. A British sighting of one of these bad boys would crash the birdguides website and probably make the news. But here they were, about six of them, just paddling around without a care in the world. A bright white head is a pretty damning camouflage but ultimately made them a simple spot. Birding is never usually this easy.

Granted I’d set off for around 8am, I was still surprised at how few people were also visiting the reserve. This place was on par with Minsmere in terms of appeal but had no visitor centre, staff or carrot cake filled cafe. A plethora of wildlife found next to one of the largest cities in Spain but I had the entire place to myself. Begs the question how passionate the general Spanish public are about nature? Maybe it was just too early for most folk. Treading the empty dust path, the next hide was a treat for the eyes. Avocets were rubbing feathery shoulders with sandwich terns whilst more black winged stilts dabbled in the shallow pools. A silvery cormorant look on proudly as it perched on a bare branch. In a flash, a gaggle of frenetic screeching was following by a fleeing spree, with the terns taking to the air in a flash. My instant reaction was to check the sky and I was disappointed. A mid-mobbing Osprey glided over the scrape and over the horizon. Undeniably a bird that never fails to catch the eye.

Onwards I went and the early morning chilled breeze was soon burned out by the intensity of the Spanish solar rays and soon, my already sunburnt skin started to sting. My successful day out needed to be wrapped up but before I hobbled home, I decided to find the highest point on the reserve have one final scan of the surrounding pools. Swifts again were on a vendetta to take off my head as they whizzed at eye level beside me. A single male pochard was a familiar face but wasn’t exactly the waterbird I had come to find. Every bush was trilling with warbler song which only added to the audible experience. In typical birdwatching fashion, the moment I turned my back, a heron-like silhouette floated up from the reeds. The same size as a little egret but far from white, a binoculars check confirmed another lifer for me, a little bittern. Normal bitterns warrant cheering so spotting their miniature cousin left me speechless. Yet more ticks!

After two hours or so, I was birded out. My dreams of seeing flamingos, bee-eaters and hoopoes fell short but in short, I would have to be quite the snob to play down the day’s haul. Perhaps I was a month too late during the peak sub-Saharan migration or maybe all the other lifers were on the beach. I may have travelled to Malaga with the intention of a tan but I left in the knowledge of knowing that I was lucky enough to witness one of Europe's most exclusive rarities. Based on other reports, my small list of sightings is only the tip of the iceberg, with plenty more surely out there. Fancy a piece of this spicy Spanish omelette? Remember, airport security at Southend only takes FIVE MINUTES.

What a trip.

Adios…