The Bovey Birder

In my last post, I wrote the first instalment of the latest Mallorca series, detailing the first impressions of where we were staying and the surrounding area, as well as giving a few sneak peeks as to the birds and wildlife we were fortunate to encounter during our week-long stay. But why is Mallorca so amazing for birding, with between 25 and 30 thousand birdwatching tourists visiting annually? Well, as we had discovered on both of our previous trips to the island, there are several reasons which interlink to create the perfect birding paradise.

It should be mentioned that Mallorca is home to several endemic species, as well as hosting crucial populations of others. The Balearic Warbler is probably the most well-known, with it only breeding on the Balearics, excluding Menorca. It thrives in the open, rocky and partially vegetated coastal areas that are found across the islands, especially on smaller islands like Dragonera and Cabrera. Another species endemic to Mallorca can be seen in other spots around the Mediterranean, and even in the English Channel at the right time of year! It is, of course, the Balearic Shearwater, a species prized on pelagics and seawatches on the south coast of England and Ireland. They nest in crevices and caves on the cliffs that are plentiful around the islands’ coastlines. With the Shearwater, it is worth noting that the word endemic describes a species that only breeds in one particular place. So despite it being seen further afield in other seasons, it is still endemic to Mallorca!

Recently, a new species was recognised by the IUCN, that only breeds on the Balearics, Corsica and Sardinia. These populations have been split from the Spotted Flycatcher, and are now known as the Mediteranean Flycatcher, due to studies showing that the populations on the above Mediterranean islands exhibit genetic differences, as well as slight differences in their plumage and other physical characteristics. Mallorca is also home to several endemic subspecies, such as the Balearic Woodchat Shrike. This subspecies differs from the Woodchat Shrike due to the lack of a white patch on the primary feathers and a deeper bill, and also has a case to become a separate species in the future.

Black Vultures are a species that are currently thriving in Mallorca thanks to dedicated conservation efforts bringing them back from the brink of local extinction. But Mallorca’s breeding population is the only one in the world currently sustainably based on an offshore island, making Mallorca’s birds crucial for ornithologists to study. But now I’ve outlined just a few of Mallorca’s more well-known specialty species, let’s delve into why Mallorca is just so good for birds.

To start with, the location of the island is perfect. Providing one of the largest stop-off points between Europe and Africa, it is strategically placed to entertain migrants that need to rest and recuperate on their journeys in Spring and Autumn. And Mallorca has the diverse range of habitats to accommodate many different species, from waders and wildfowl on huge wetlands such as S’Albufera, to passerines pausing on Cap de Formentor, a breathtaking headland jutting out into the northern Mediterranean Sea. Around 33% of Mallorca is still woodland, its mountains play host to several species of large raptors, and the open plains in the middle of the island are full of birdlife.

But another reason lies in Mallorca’s agricultural stance. 55.5% of Mallorca is covered by farmland, but the island is increasingly embracing practices that benefit both people and nature, with a large shift towards sustainable and regenerative farming methods. Much of Mallorca’s produce is now produced organically with no pesticides, and agroforestry (integrating trees and shrubs into farmland to increase diversity and sustainability) is gaining traction on the island. Above all, these practices aim to improve soil health, enhance biodiversity and battle climate change, all while being sustainable and affordable.

Mallorca’s Key Habitats

Wetlands play a big part in Mallorca’s ecosystem, with large sites such as S’Albufera, S’Albufereta, along with smaller ones such as Maristany, playing host to many species of birds and wildlife. They offer a mix of reedbeds, marshes, lagoons and canals, providing habitat for several species that can be relatively hard to find in other parts of Europe. Red Knobbed Coots, one of Europe’s most endangered waterbirds, can be found within the park boundaries of S’Albufera, while the above sites are some of the best places to spot Eleonora’s Falcons that feed on the insects above the marshes. Mallorca is one of the best places in the world to spot these incredibly agile falcons.

Another of Mallorca’s key habitats is the mountainous regions in the west of the island. A far cry from the bustling wetlands, these rocky, open spaces complete with stunted vegetation give life to raptor species from the Black Vulture to the Bonelli’s Eagle. The rugged landscapes of sites such as the Serra de Tramuntana create ideal conditions for raptors to soar high in the sky, with the high ridges generating thermals for the birds to climb effortlessly. With the mountains offering many ideal nesting sites, as well as open, more vegetated spaces for hunting, why would they want to leave? The mountains are also home to other desirable species such as the Common Rock Thrush and Eurasian Crag Martin, both cliff and mountainside specialists.

All around Mallorca’s coastline, from Formentor to the islands of Dragonera and Cabrera, you’ll find rocky, coastal scrubby habitats, which are the perfect living conditions for many of the passerine species that call Mallorca home or are just stopping by on migration. The Balearic Warbler loves this kind of habitat, along with the Moltoni’s Warbler, a rare Mediterranean species that only breeds in the Balearics, Corsica, Sardinia and northern Italy, which all have one thing in common; that scrubby, open habitat that this species really loves. Dominant plant that make up this habitat on Mallorca include Kidney Vetch, Mallorca St John’s Wort, Mediterranean Heath and Rosemary, which are all adapted to the low rainfall, strong sea breezes and the highly alkaline soils that all feature heavily on the clifftops of Mallorca.

In Spring, Mallorca’s cliffs are packed with birds, all looking to take advantage of the protection the cliffs offer from predators and harsh weather. The cliffs are covered with vegetation and natural crevices, providing plenty of nest sites that give shelter from the elements. The proximity to the sea also plays a part in birds’ decisions to nest on the cliffs, with seabirds like Shags and Audouin’s Gulls (considered one of the rarest gull species in the world) taking full advantage of this. Eleonora’s Falcons will also nest in the cliffs, with their breeding season uniquely timed with autumn passerine migration (about July to October) so that they can prey on the many tired birds passing through.

Mallorca is a truly special place for birds and birdwatchers alike, and I hope that you have understood that from this blog. It is quite possibly my favourite birding destination, and it’s migration seasons, Spring and Autumn, are truly spectacular, from soaring raptors to tiny passerines, and everything in between. It was incredible to be back there again, and I hope I can express my sheer joy in birding on that beautiful island through this post, and those to come.

Two weeks ago, I went on holiday with my family to the tiny island paradise of Mallorca. But, despite being one of the most popular holiday destinations in Europe, its also brilliant for birdwatching, as I’d found out in my two previous visits. You can read about them as well in the blog archives, but I will warn you the writing about my first trip is nowhere near as, uhmm, established as it is now, mainly due to the fact that I was about 8 years old then! It was still an incredible trip, though, as was the second one, just two years ago. Anyway, looking at the maps, you could see that the villa we’d be staying in this time around was ridiculously close to the site that had given me so many memories in previous years, the incredible wetland known as Reserva Natural de s’Albufereta. In fact, it almost backed onto it! Around most of the villa was agricultural land, but unlike most of the UK’s, it was truly buzzing with life. But more on that later.

To my slight frustration, it was to be a family holiday, so (regrettably) I couldn’t go off birding every day. We spent a lot of time exploring both Pollenca and Port de Pollenca, as well as relaxing and just taking a bit of time off around the pool and table tennis table. I did my best to communicate with the parts of Spanish I can speak, with mixed results (I still have a lot to learn!). The food and drink was incredible, and there was nothing but warm weather over the whole trip, which was a big change to adapt to after spending so much time in the UK. And after a few days we were all coated in mosquito bites. But that was one of the few negatives of a highly enjoyable trip, which did thankfully incorporate a few day’s birdwatching.

We arrived at our home for the next week in the dead of night, and with the bleating of goats echoing through the darkness, we settled in rapidly. But as soon as I woke up the next morning, I could tell that this was the perfect location, from a birding perspective. Serenading me from an above power line was a Thekla’s Lark, a small, brown, speckled and streaked bird flashing its elegant crest in the moist morning air. It’s song was soft and tuneful, and stuck a smile on my face as I watched my first lifer of the trip. These Larks thrive in grasslands and scrubby areas, and given the meadows we had next to us, you could see why this individual was here. They are smaller than a Skylark, but their main confusion species in Europe is with the shockingly similar Crested Lark, which luckily for me and my ID skills, only occurs on Mallorca as a rare migrant or vagrant. They get their name from Alfred Edmund Brehm, who named them after his late sister, Thekla, in 1857.

Soon the Lark flew away, and my eyes panned around my surroundings. To the right of the villa’s garden lay a tall meadow dashed and dotted with blue, orange, red and yellow. But the noise was astounding. It was absolutely heaving with insects, with what sounded like thousands of crickets and grasshoppers buzzing like there was no tomorrow. I’d genuinely never heard anything quite like that, definitely not anywhere in Britain.

And then, extending around the back and the right side of the villa’s garden were olive groves, literally teeming with birds, which must of course mean that it was also full of insects. There were Zitting Cisticolas, Serins, House Sparrows, and Great Tits flitting between boughs. There were also chickens being kept in a section of the grove, clearly enjoying the abundance of insects as well.

So there I was, stood on gradually warming tiles with a glass of apple juice, silently taking in the sounds of so many insects and birds living happily on the agricultural land around me. Curious, I ducked behind the hedge that separated me and the olive grove and found on its far fringe a waterless stream bed, that must fill up during the wetter part of the year. Who knows, maybe it even led into the very nearby s’Albufereta?

Around the front of the villa lay a bed full of flowering plants alive with bumblebees, butterflies and Hummingbird Hawkmoths. Purple, red, orange and yellow flowers adorned shrubs and bushes, while insects zoomed between blooms. I had hardly ever seen such an abundance of insects, and it was mesmerising to watch them go about their lives.

The villa, as I said previously, was right on the back of Albufereta, which would explain why we had a Marsh Harrier flyby later in the week. But that was honestly just the tip of the iceberg in terms of what we had around us. There were two sets of mountains either side of us, looming over the farmland and meadowland that sat beneath them. Mallorca’s mountains are crucial habitats, supporting many special species including the only island breeding Black Vultures in the world, which are coincidentally the biggest raptor found in Europe, with a wingspan that can be up to 3 metres.

Speaking of vultures, I had quite the encounter on our third morning in the Balearics. I’d just ducked inside the villa to grab a glass of water when suddenly there were shouts from outside calling me back out again. I rushed out, sweeping my binoculars and cameras up in my arms as I went, and found myself looking up at four huge birds, with another trailing a bit behind them in the distance. Three out of the four birds directly above me were black vultures, huge dark beasts, with a smaller, paler Griffon Vulture in amongst them. The bird behind them was a medium sized eagle, and as it came over the pattern on the underside of its wings was reminiscent of a honey buzzard. I was fairly shocked to discover that this was in fact a Bonelli’s Eagle, which I confirmed via google and my bird guide. My heart was actually beating faster than normal as I watched those birds glide effortlessly overhead, and towards the mountains.

As dusk fell that night, we heard several Stone Curlews, their calls almost eerie in the twilight. They are, here in Mallorca, a relatively common farmland bird, camouflaged amazingly well against ploughed soil. All you can really look for when scanning fields like those is the yellow eye ring, that stands out from the rest of the streaky brown wader. They sounded very nearby, and I felt sure that they would be enjoying the bounty of insects this particular stretch of farmland provided, just like the Corn Buntings we’d been watching earlier. Corn Buntings are rather large buntings, of a stocky build. They’re brown and streaky, and their primary food source is seeds and grains. But in the breeding season, they supplement their diet with insects, which explained why I’d seen one with a huge grasshopper in its beak. The amount of insects also explained the amount of Eleonara’s Falcons we’d seen over these fields, an island specialty here in Mallorca. But I’ll talk more about them in another post.

So, there are a lot of insects. Which ones were we actually able to identify? Well, we saw a lot of cool ones, including an Egyptian Bird Cricket, which was absolutely humongous and apparently liked climbing trees. One evening, it literally just sprung over the stone wall separating us from the buzzing meadow, and leapt onto the trunk of an olive tree. It’s called a bird cricket because of its slight flight capabilities and its size, meaning that when seen from a bit of a distance, it’s often mistaken for a small bird! We also saw several Milkweed Bugs, their stark red and black colouration a sign of their distastefulness to any potential predators. Another kind of cricket, the European mole cricket, appeared in the villa garden, a species that is now critically endangered in the UK with a single known colony in the New Forest. Butterfly wise, there were what felt like hundreds of Clouded Yellows almost everywhere we went, which made sense as they are abundant on Mallorca in May due to the arrival of individuals from North Africa. There were also many Common Blues, fluttering around alongside the Clouded Yellows.

I hope that you’ve enjoyed reading this introductory blog to my holiday in Mallorca. I hope that you’ve been able to visualise what a biodiverse place it was from my writing, and to think it was right around our villa as well! Keep an eye out for the next one, which will include some of Mallorca’s most breathtaking birding sites, and why the island is really so good for birds.

Mallorca, in my opinion, is one of the places where I am happiest. The amount of biodiversity is incredible, and it just feels so much wilder than back home. A lot of it’s wilderness feels completely untouched, like the mountains. When you compare those to Dartmoor, it’s fairly easy to see which has had more human intervention. I haven’t mentioned him yet in this post, but another reason that Mallorca is just so good is because Pere Tomas, ornithologist, biologist, tour guide and birdwatching extraordinaire lives on the island. He is my good friend, and a good friend of my family too. He’s an incredible man, and I assure you he will feature heavily in this series of blogs. I always feel on top of the world in Mallorca, and I can truly say, with all of my heart, that it’s great to be back.

Hi! This is just a quick update on why I haven’t been posting for a couple of months. First of all, I think I need to say sorry for not having written for an extended period of time. But its been a very busy spring, whether I’ve been revising for school exams or training for the South West Regional Swimming Championships, I haven’t been able to find much time for the Bovey Birder, to my regret and frustration.

As I have been coming up to the End of Year 8, I have had exams in every subject which will determine which sets I go into next year. These are fairly important as next year I pick my GCSE options before completing the coursework in Year 10. So there have been plenty of sleepless nights and early morning flashcard sessions due to this, but after all that they have gone very well so I’m pleased with that.

Another big factor to my absence has been the relentless swim training that led up to the South West Regional Championships, which concluded last weekend. Essentially, the weekday routine was; school, couple of hours at home, then training. It’s been tiring, but it was worth it. I swam four events; 50 breastroke (41:54), 50 butterfly (34:40), 100 breastroke (1:28:21) and 200 butterfly (2:51:81). In the 200 butterfly I made the final and finished sixth, which I was very happy with considering I started the day seeded 15th. And afterwards, we still managed to pop into Ham Wall for some birding on the way back (I will be writing about that soon). I’ve also managed to get up to Emsworthy Mire to go Cuckoo spotting!

I’ve also remained committed to the Dartmoor Youth Rangers, having done many activities over the last few months including archeological maintenance work, bird surveys, hedgerow surveys, building boardwalks and even lambing. Its good and enjoyable work, and it builds a wealth of experience for the future. I think I would enjoy a job title like ‘Dartmoor Ranger’, so it’s brilliant for the CV. Also, its really fun!

So, in a nutshell, I should be back for good now, and come to think of it, I’ve already at least one of a burst of new posts lined up. I just thought I’d better give you an update and say sorry for my continual absence over the last few months. Watch this space!

Sophie Pavelle is a brilliant author and science communicator, who as it stands, has authored two great books, ‘Forget me not’ and ‘To Have or to Hold’, which both document very different things. The former follows her journey to spot and learn more about 10 climate-threatened species, and the latter explores the complex scientific subject of symbiosis, in a fun and engaging way. I was lucky enough to meet her on Wednesday night. Read on for more…

Sophie came to Bovey Tracey to give a talk on her book at First Draft Books, an excellent independent bookshop within Grace and Favour Home, my parents’ shop. It was truly enlightening as to the knowledge and secrets hidden in the pages of ‘To Have or to Hold’, from rare ants to 3mm worms that hijack photosynthesis. There really is something in the book for everybody.

Following a First Class Degree in Zoology at the University of Bristol and a Distinction in Science Communication from the University of the West of England, Sophie has gone on to work with several prominent organisations including the Beaver Trust, where she worked as Communications Coordinator for four years and presented the award-winning documentary ‘Beavers Without Borders’. She is based in Devon, and so is an ambassador for the Wildlife Trusts and sits on the board for UNESCO Exeter City of Literature. So she’s a pretty amazing person, having done all this before she turned 30!

Before you read on, I thought I’d introduce a glossary as it gets quite technical:

Glossary

Symbiosis: A close and long-term relationship between two different species

Parasitism: A symbiotic relationship where one species benefits more than the other

Mutualism: A symbiotic relationship where both species benefit

Commensalism: A symbiotic relationship where one species benefits while the other is neither harmed nor any better off

So, you are probably wondering about the title of this post. Well, it’s what she signed in my copy of the book, and a big part in the actual text itself. Symbiosis is one of the most complex concepts in the animal world, and is described as ‘a close, long-term relationship between two or more different species’. A large part of that is parasitism, where the parasite usually benefits more than the host. Take, for example, a Cuckoo. It benefits in that it doesn’t have to spend its energy incubating and feeding a chick, whereas the host, often a Meadow Pipit on Dartmoor, gets an extra chick to deal with. But there is no one fixed definition for parasitism. Say if the Cuckoo chick pushes out several of the Pipit’s brood, as they are inclined to do, then there are less mouths to feed, less energy needed by the parent, and each chick is likely to get more and better food, so as to grow up stronger. In symbiosis, there truly are two sides to every story.

Another example of symbiosis that many people will recognise is the Oxpecker, eating the flies of off the backs of Buffalo. This is a prime instance of symbiosis, and one that most people will have learnt about in school biology lessons, maybe concerning topics like food chains. Here the Oxpecker gets its meal and the Buffalo gets a bit of a clean! And have you ever noticed a Robin hovering around near your shovel when you’re digging in your garden? This is because Robins in England have a symbiotic relationship with humans, where they eat the worms churned up from the soil. In lots of European countries, Robins are less of a garden bird and are more likely to follow Wild Boar and eat the worms churned up by their rooting around. So humans replace the boar in this symbiotic relationship, mainly as Boar were hunted to extinction a long time ago in Britain! It can be debated, but I would probably say that this is an example of commensalism, as the humans don’t really benefit other than seeing a beautiful bird, but then again nature is good for your mental health, so maybe its mutualism?

I hope that the Cuckoo example proved to you that parasites aren’t just a group of disgusting worms or bugs that crawl under skin, suck blood or spread disease. I mean sure, those exist too, but these are but a minuscule segment of the story of parasitism. There are also two other kinds of symbiosis; mutualism, meaning that both species benefit from the interaction and commensalism, meaning that one species benefits while the other one gets nothing but loses nothing either. An example of the former would be a bee pollinating a flower (both benefit), while an example of the latter would be a barnacle hitching a ride on a whale. They don’t harm the whale, but the barnacle gets to travel through nutrient-rich waters. But remember to keep an open mind, as again there will often be different scenarios. Symbiosis is not a fixed thing, and varies on a huge scale. And so we don’t necessarily know as much as we would like to know about it.

Sophie took a very interesting view on the current state of nature across the world, which really resonated with me, as I’ll be honest its exactly what I’d been thinking for years! She said that humans were simply a parasite of the Earth, taking what we want from it. But we don’t want to be the kind of parasite that over time strips the host of everything, eventually killing it. After all, it is in the best interest of a parasite to keep its host alive. So surely we want to keep our host alive, if we want to continue living here?

I am very much looking forward to reading the book, but especially the last chapter, as it features a species of ant whose last stronghold in the UK is Chudleigh Knighton Heath, a Devon Wildlife Trust Reserve literally just down the road from me. This is, of course, the Narrow-Headed Ant, which alongside other ant species, has an incredible behaviour not seen in any other kind of animal. This is an incredible symbiotic relationship where the ants ‘herd’ the aphids and move them along to different sections of the plant, while also protecting them from potential predators, such as ladybirds. It’s a lucrative business, with the aphids producing honey-dew from their rear ends, a sugary substance which is the perfect snack for the ants. The aphids need the ants to do this, as if too much of the honey-dew builds up on the aphids, then potentially harmful bacteria can build up all over their bodies, restricting their movement and eventually killing them.

At the end of the talk, I was lucky enough to meet Sophie, which was incredible as for the past few years I had been reading her book and following her adventures via social media. It was great to talk to her, and we ended up talking about Cuckoos (my all time favourite bird) and Emsworthy Mire (my all-time favourite place). She even ended up giving me the copy of the book that she’d brought with her to read from, which was absolutely brilliant. Thanks Sophie!

Overall, I am really looking forward to reading the book (‘To Have or to Hold’, in case you forgot) and I recommend that you do too. Sophie had been on tour with the book all week before the evening’s talk, and it has been met with a glowing reception from the nature community. Plus, if it takes after the first book (‘Forget Me Not’) then it must be incredible! So, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some reading to do.

About a month ago, we visited the Shapwick Heath National Nature Reserve starling roost to round off an incredible birthday birding weekend. The highlight of the evening was the murmuration that unfolded before our eyes, a dancing, twisting, mesmerisingly beautiful cloudy mass of birds. There was quite a crowd there too; keen birdwatchers, photographers and filmmakers, families and many others. There must have been at least 200 people lined up along that one stretch of path, craning their necks to get a glimpse of the spectacle. It’s incredible how a natural phenomenon can bring people together like that.

As for the murmuration itself, well it defies belief really doesn’t it? There must have been just shy of 100,000 birds in that one flock, all magically connected by an invisible thread formed by evolution and the need for community. The shape started off small, but steadily began to grow in both size and confidence. The flock was small at the start, almost half-heartedly going through the movements, as if warming up. But as more birds began to arrive, in little groups ranging from a dozen to 70 or 80, the power of the wave soon began to take hold. The noise, when the murmuration came closer, was like that of a blowing gale. Thousands of wings, beating the same rhythmic pulse. I’m honoured to have been able to witness and experience such a thing.

It’s incredible to think, really, that a birds everyday life always seems unremarkable and common, is actually anything but. Such a happening in the human world would take more planning than I’m willing to go through at this moment in time. Just imagine it. You’d need 100,000 people, and a way for them to not bump into each other. You’d need to find a method of getting them to move as one mega-organism, which, short of implanting a futuristic control chip in all their minds, I don’t think would be physically possible.

But the Starlings, they just show up on the day and do it. No planning, no practise, and no convincing others to come and join in (unlike humans). Nonchalantly, they just fly to the site and get on with it. Forming this twirling, swirling, physics-defying spectacle is just something that happens, part of everyday life for them, in the winter at least anyway. And who knows, maybe science will soon reveal a social aspect forming part of the need to murmurate. I mean, we know that it is in order to roost communally and adhere to that age-old natural law, safety in numbers, but maybe it could be something more? Like meeting up with friends or family? Call me crazy, but that’s how I like to imagine it!

Such a thing is why we have expressions in the English language like ‘my breath caught in my throat’ and ‘my heart skipped a beat’. This is the kind of beauty that can’t be replicated in a man-made form. It is the sort of thing where beauty is found in the fact that we know so little about it, and its easier just to stare and let your jaw drop in awe. On that bitterly cold night, I felt an unimaginable amount of different things, washing over me in rapidly occurring waves. Joy, confusion, anxiety, curiosity. But the backstop behind it all never ceased to be a sense of awe. I’d never really felt anything like it, to be honest. And it felt good.

All of a sudden, in the blink of an eye every last bird had disappeared, dropping into the reeds to finally commence their communal roost. It definitely seemed a little anticlimactic, after such an inspiring, breathtaking performance on the Shapwick stage. Immediately it struck me as mind-boggling how near on 100,000 birds had all vanished into that one stretch of reedbed. It was like a magic trick, just another part of the wonder of the murmuration.

So, what do we actually know about the murmurations? There is little in the form of rock-hard facts when it comes to researching this natural phenomenon, but one thing that’s for certain is that they all happen at around the same time of day, up and down the country, and that’s in the evening as the sun goes down. Another thing we know is that it always coincides with a communal roost, whether that be beneath a pier, such as in Blackpool, or within a reedbed, like here at Shapwick Heath NNR.

The community angle is a good one to take, as a lot of it just makes sense. The more birds there are together, the more body heat and warmth there is, and obviously then there’s safety in numbers. If you’re a Starling, you’re going to want to be at a sizeable roost because then if a fox or marten was to come along, you’d be less likely to become an evening snack. Some scientists even think that the murmuration is a way of attracting more birds to the roost, to add to the current flock’s numbers. So that’s one theory to explain the murmuration, and I think it actually does make a lot of sense, from an evolutionary point of view.

Another theory is that the murmuration is completely for show, and is an intimidation tactic used to frighten off any potential predators that might be lurking around the roost site. If you don’t know what you’re actually looking at, a murmuration can be both unnerving and startling. If this were to be true however, it clearly doesn’t always work as some of the most breathtaking murmurations happen when a bird of prey like a Peregrine Falcon darts through and splits the murmuration in two, trying to pick off a single bird.

Murmurations have certainly left their mark on the history books, as well as touching the lives of people in the modern world too. The Ancient Romans believed that the undulating patterns created by the Starlings mirrored the changing moods of their many gods. Roman religious leaders, known as augurs or diviners, interpreted the shapes created by the birds to make major decisions, about such crucial things like key battles and political debates. They were a way of seeing whether the gods approved of the idea or not. This was known as ‘taking the auspices’. So there you have it. Starlings even spoke for the Roman gods!

As I have already mentioned a ridiculous amount of times in this blog, such is my admiration for them, a starling murmuration is one of nature’s greatest spectacles and a truly breathtaking sight. I feel incredibly honoured and privileged to have seen such a phenomenon, that is as of yet unexplained by science. I have written two previous posts detailing them, so if you want to have a read of those too click here or here. To watch a video of the murmuration, visit my instagram account (@the_bovey_birder).

A month ago it was my birthday, and to be honest, I pretty much spent all the time birding. Visiting two sites with special places in my memories and on this blog was both nostalgic and rewarding, with a few rare birds and natural phenomenons thrown in, of course. Across the two days, there turned out to only be one lifer (however it was a big one), but my year list is now off to a brilliant start, and I’m hoping that 2025 is going to be a big birding year. So without further ado, we began on a walk towards RSPB Bowling Green Marsh.

Blue and Great Tits fluttered from tree to tree above us as we walked down the path that was parallel to the River Clyst, which was about to open up onto its estuary. I looked up from by binoculars to find a glorious male Bullfinch, in all its rosy pink glory, staring right back at me. As I watched, transfixed by its stare, a female flew in onto the branch above it, her breast a dusky, dusty brown. The chittering of a large group of House Sparrows, taking over a nearby hedge brought me back to my senses, and I continued on my way down the path, occasionally pressing myself into the leafy green border when the ping of a bike bell rent the air.

The tide by now was almost in, leaving a small group of Black Tailed Godwits on the edge of the water, legs obscured by swaying grasses. A Redshank weaved between them, while a much happier looking group of Teal paddled about out in the middle of the water. We trudged onto the bridge, laden with a scope, binoculars, camera and several rucksacks, and I raised my head to acknowledge the pair of Ravens flying over our heads with a harsh ‘kraw’. It was a bird I hadn’t necessarily expected to see on a visit to the Exe Estuary, and definitely welcome.

The bridge opened up onto a raised boardwalk that provided a pedestrian highway over the marshland and reedbeds. Several viewpoints lay along its right hand side, looking out over prime wetland habitat. Wistfully I thought back to last Spring, when the dense shrubbery on the left had concealed many deafening Cetti’s warblers, a reddish brown bird more often heard than seen. At the first viewpoint we saw one of our main target species for the day at pretty much the first time of asking, and it was a raptor that never failed to take your breath away.

From here all you could see was extensive reedbed, until your eyes found Darts Farm and the road on the other side. It started with several Carrion Crows making a mighty ruckus, clearly agitated. And then a richly coloured bird of chocolate brown, with a coffee cream patch on its face rose from the reeds, gliding on powerful wings. Had it let its feet dangle beneath her, they would’ve become entangled in reeds, and her head was constantly scanning, searching for prey in the reeds below. A female Marsh Harrier, surveying her queendom.

The grey clouds hung over us as we tramped along the echoing boardwalk, passing cyclists and families as we went. The next viewpoint proved a window to several pools and channels on the edge of the reedbed, fringed by swaying rushes. A squealing call brought my binoculars right up to my eyes, slightly reminiscent of that of a pig. However, I certainly hadn’t expected to see the caller out in the open. With an admirable blue-grey breast, and a brown patterned back, the bird ran with a speed that took me completely aback, flashing a white rump as it went. Suddenly another bird popped out as the first one concealed itself once again in the reeds, and the two Water Rails, relatives of the Coot and Moorhen, took it in turns to run out of the reeds looking for food. When the cold snaps come in the winter, Water Rails are forced out into open water, and this is the best time to see them. We’d seen them here on our last visit a couple of weeks ago, and this seemed to be a favoured spot for them.

My eyes were torn away as my ears were clogged with honking, and I directed my binoculars upwards to see a group of Brent Geese flying in a miniature v-formation, a flurry of greys and white. The Exe was famous for them, with its huge wintering numbers nationally important. Brent Geese prefer to feed on eelgrass that is slightly submerged in water, so parts of the Exe are perfect for them.

The boardwalk ended, and suddenly we were on solid ground again. The air around us was filled with cacophonous calls growing in volume, a telltale sign of a winter wetland close by. Just a spiked metal fence and a loosely packed hedge separated us from the marshes, and the birds certainly knew this too. As we walked past, we startled a resting Egyptian Goose on the water’s edge, and it watched us warily before tucking its head back behind its wing.

The lane led down to the RSPB Hide, complete with a nature garden and Lapwing shaped bike racks. Silently, we entered, shutting the door carefully behind us so as not to disturb the myriad of species in front of us. The thing about a wetland is that you never know where to look first. Do you scan through the massive group of Wigeon in front of you, or admire the beauty of the dabbling Pintails further out. Do you watch as the Cormorant fans it’s wings on an islet, or follow the Lapwing’s energetic bouncing bursts of flights? It’s a dilemma that few birders have managed to answer, such is the wonder of a wetland in winter.

Out at the back was a bird which looked very out of place, like an odd Tufted Duck. It was on its own, and regularly diving beneath the surface of the water before popping up again a couple of meters away from where it began. But this was in fact an immature male Greater Scaup, a sea-duck by nature that often ventured slightly inland during the winter months. An inconspicuous chocolate brown, like a female tufted duck, it can be told apart from its counterpart by its larger size, steeper forehead and larger broad bill. They’re a fairly scarce duck to see, and this bird was a long-stayer at Bowling Green.

After around 90 minutes in the hide, we left as soundlessly as we could and continued down the lane, heading for the next viewpoint that looked over the mudflats exposed by the retreating tide. As we headed down the path after passing through another creaky iron-wrought gate, a Kestrel, tiny but mighty, flew low over our heads before coming to perch in a tree barely a couple of metres away from us. Light for a photo was going to be tricky, but the positioning of the bird was an opportunity few would miss. After pausing for a few shots, we headed up the wooden steps and onto the viewpoint.

Immediately a group of Avocets caught my eye, in all their piebald splendour. The Exe plays host to a national important wintering population of these waders, and is one of the best places to see them in the UK. The Avocet even features on the logo of the RSPB, being one of their first conservation success stories. Scanning to the right with the scope, I picked up a Dunlin in its drab winter plumage, moving sprightly about the mudflats, dipping its bill deep into the dirt at intervals.

I looked up from the scope as a loud, piping call cut through the air around us. Two Oystercatchers, with blood-orange bills, came flying in, landing on the mudflats in amongst the Avocets. Next to arrive was a Curlew, followed by several Cormorants putting in a flyby visit. The variety of species on these mudflats has been barely touched by me, and there was a lot more further out there taking advantage of the tidal riches that nature has provided.

After another hour of watching the waders go by, we headed back up the lane and across the boardwalk, back towards Darts Farm where our trip had started. The chittering of another House Sparrow filled bush was our 2 o’clock chorus as we packed up the gear into the car. Tomorrow would hold another birding trip, but further afield than today at Bowling Green.

Ham Wall

We awoke bright and early next morning to begin the trip to Somerset, and its abundant marshland habitats. The site in question was none other than RSPB Ham Wall, famous for Bitterns and Starlings alike. As soon as we had parked, a male Bullfinch flew low over our heads before alighting on a snag of bramble opposite us. Its rosy pink breast lit up the drab grey morning air, and could surely only be a good omen for the day’s birding ahead. It was bitterly cold, and I was grateful for the many layers I was wearing. There was very little sun to be spoken of, rather just a desert-like sky of grey. The wind blew an ear-chilling gust that wove its way inside my coat, and I was only too glad when we were ready to start walking.

RSPB Ham Wall is one of the first major RSPB reserves I ever visited, and I made many memories those five years ago that I still cherish fondly. Even the car park seemed familiar, the crunch of the gravel beneath my boots and the Grey Heron flying off towards the marshes. I’d been waiting a long time to come back, and now I was finally here I could hardly contain my excitement.

With the sound of wetland birds ringing in our ears, we started off down the trail, surrounded by reed-bed habitat on both sides. The gravelled path winded through the beige colour of reeds, uniform and swaying. After a while, we came to a boardwalk which led on a slight upward incline out of the reed-bed. Suddenly, a small robin-sized bird burst out of the thicket on my right to perch momentarily on the boardwalk at my feet. It was a smooth, reddish-brown colour, and its tail pointed skywards, reminiscent of that belonging to a Wren. This could only be a Cetti’s warbler, a usually shy bird that makes up for its introverted behaviour by being astonishingly loud. Its deafening bursts of song in Spring mean that you are always more likely to hear it than see it. I’d never dreamt of seeing one so close, and it was quite the encounter, even if it only lasted for a few seconds.

The boardwalk led us out onto a more solid path, and we unpacked the scope on the bridge that overlooked so many of the channels and streams that snake across the Ham Wall reserve. On the water below paddled several Teal, with the male’s striking green and red head colours unmistakable to the naked eye. A Grey Heron stalked along the bank, powerful bill poised in anticipation of its prey. And low over the reeds flew a Herring Gull, causing several Mallards to skitter over the water into momentary flight.

A Dunnock hopped across the path as we departed, grey breast a similar shade to the ground we walked on. Soon enough we came to Viewpoint 1, which overlooked one of the larger bodies of water at Ham Wall and featured several small islands on which sat many wildfowl. From Gadwall to Wigeon, Pintail to Tufted Ducks, it was hard to name a winter duck that wasn’t out there. Several Mute Swans were also out on the water, their white plumage striking against the backdrop of the reeds which fringed the water.

A I watched a deceit of Lapwings (genuinely, that’s their collective noun!) came flying into the foreground, slow irregular wingbeats coupled with some half-hearted aerial acrobatics. Their shrill cry startled a few of the nearby Teal, who made a hasty exit, but nobody else seemed to mind, and the Lapwings stood on the little island that was more duck footprints and churned up mud than actual vegetation. Most stuck their heads beneath their wings, apparently exhausted from their excursion, while others began to preen themselves for the birders’ cameras.

These Lapwing certainly caught my attention, for there had been much news of a stunning Glossy Ibis hanging around on the reserve, and it seemed to like associating with the local Lapwing. The glossy Ibis is a chestnut wading bird, reminiscent of an Egret, which breeds in parts of Southern Europe. It can be found in many places across the world, from Asia to South America, but is a rare visitor to the UK. However, due to population increase in the South west of Europe, and climate change warming Britain’s weather, they have become more common visitors in recent years. They are a rare treat to see here, and I must admit I was very excited at the prospect of seeing my first!

To my frustration, the Ibis wasn’t in among those Lapwings, so we moved on, deciding to return later to see if we could spot it. We headed on a path that went further out through the reedbeds, seemingly cutting right through, which gave excellent views on both sides. The channels and open water were buzzing with life, just like at the viewpoint, and two Grey Herons seemed to be building an early nest within the secrecy the swaying reeds afforded. It was amazing to see them flying through the air with their fish-murdering beak stuffed with twigs and sticks, but it still felt really early for this kind of behaviour. It was only January, right?

I was distracted by a Great Crested Grebe surfacing in all its slender beauty. The bird sat low in the water, and its drab grey and white winter plumage was already flecked with small brush-strokes of ginger and chestnut. I followed it’s movements with my binoculars, having to readjust and take my eyes from the lenses every now and then when it dived. Honestly, you never know where they’ll turn up once they’ve gone down! It almost seemed playful, like a game of hide and seek between me and this regal bird.

Ham Wall, is of course, famous for one special species. The Bittern. It is one of the best places in the country to hear them, and if you’re lucky, see them. Their cryptic plumage affors them a camouflage like no other, and one of their intriguing behaviourial traits is to stand up, slim and tall, looking like any of the other reeds around them. I’ve seen pictures of this incredible gift online, but would be hard-pressed to ever see it myself. The Bittern is one of the UK’s greatest conservation success stories.

Bitterns are a species completely dependent on vast reedbed habitats, and when many reedbeds and marshland habitats were drained throughout history to make way for new arable land, populations plummeted. It was considered extinct as a breeding bird in Britain during the 1880s, but the hardy birds attempted to recolonise one of their largest old haunts, the Norfolk Broads, in the early 120th century. In the 1950’s the population peaked at about 80 booming males, but by 1997 had dropped to just 11 males. Luckily, the RSPB now stepped in, researching and restoring the aBittern’s favourite reedbed habitats. With the restoration of these habitats, Britain’s loudest bird is booming once again, with 234 calling males recorded in 2023.

I mention this because the hide we were stood in now had been where I caught a glimpse of my first ever Bittern, about 5 years ago, at the exact same time of year. In fact, I think there were only a couple of days between the two exhibitions. The one I saw back then had flown right by close to the hide, its broad wings almost brushing the lenses of my binoculars in that fleeting moment. I’ve cherished that memory ever since, but to this day I have not seen another. That doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying though!

After a quick snack and drink break, we headed back along the path up onto the main track, strolling along listening for whatever birds were around us. A disturbance of the branches above us caused me to look up into the towering oak which hung over us. A Jay, pink with a flash of blue on its wing, looked down on us, an acorn from its stash clutched firmly in its beak. After a moment, it began the simple task of ignoring us, and continued to hop from bough to bough, soon crossing into a more spindly birch, which was tightly entangled with a rowan, connected by the strong leaves of high-climbing ivy. What an encounter!

The sun was now getting lower and lower in the sky, so we headed quickly back to Viewpoint 1, to see if we could catch a glimpse of the special bird I mentioned earlier. To my delight, there it was, sat preening among the now awake Lapwings. There was now a small crowd of birders gathered round the fence which separated the banks of the water and the gravelled floor of the viewpoint, and the discovery of a second bird among a group of Tufted Duck sat on the fringe of the reedbeds caused even more excitement. I felt on top of the world, and I knew that this experience would be very hard to match in the future. Pure exhilaration if I’ve ever felt it!

But there was one more surprise to end the day with. Crossing the road to nearby Shapwick Heath NNR, another swathe of restored reedbed habitat, we joined the gathering crowd to await one of nature’s greatest spectacles. It began with just a small group of birds, gathered above the reeds, but then they began to arrive. The flock continued to grow, with the addition of many small groups flying over our heads to join the Maine event. The Starlings were up for it tonight, and even more just kept flying over our heads! There goes another 10, oh look there goes 30, and look at that one that must be 70 odd birds!

Soon enough, the murmuration gathered momentum, forming incredible shapes in the dying sunlight. The mass of small black birds twisted and contorted into shapes that would be gruesome for any single organism to create, and the noise was enought o make your heart stop and for your breath to get stuck in your throat. If you couldn’t see the bird shadow which hung over your head, you’d pull your coat on and say that it was getting windy. The rush of wings created a breeze like no other, and the sound was like that of the winds that plagued a harbour. An author would be hard-pressed to come up with something as far-fetched as what we were watching, but they needn’t worry, for nature has delivered!

It was almost dark by the time the Starlings all dropped into the reeds as one to roost communally, and it was high time for us to be heading back to Devon as well. It had been a birthday weekend I wouldn’t soon forget, from glossy Ibises to dancing Starlings. Good luck topping this, next year!

If you want to read more about the science of Starling murmurations, click here to read my blog about it.