Eastern Yellow Wagtail, Lesser Spotted Woodpecker and the days where no exaggeration is necessary - February 22nd 2025

 

I saw my first Lesser Spotted Woodpecker in 1996 in a woodland that doesn’t exist anymore.  It was a forest in Chorley and the majority of that forest is now a hotel and golf course complex.  You can get a really good ice cream there.  I’m sure that’s a benefit the displaced wildlife appreciates.  It’s taken 29 years to see another, and many, many hours of searching.  Driving towards Sherwood this morning as the sun came up, I said to K that I had a good feeling about the day, though that positivity seemed short-lived as we arrived at the Lesser Spotted Woodpecker’s favoured haunt to the news that it hadn’t been calling, drumming, or seen that week.

Five minutes later, the male bird flew into a huge, dead Oak, flitted briefly, and then vanished.  With a little patience, we refound the bird shadowing a Great Spotted Woodpecker.  I have no idea if this is a learned behaviour, or purposeful, or a defensive measure against a possible nest invading predator, or just a coincidence of timing, but wherever the Great Spot went, the Lesser wasn’t more than 30 seconds behind.  The views we had of a really special bird (in the north in particular) were exceptional, and it really felt like a meaningful encounter with a species that I have very little experience with.  Sadly, it appears that this bird is alone and that its mate has vanished.  Another northern outpost of the range of this incredible little bird seems to have been doomed to decline.

Within half a mile walking towards Budby, we had seen all three British woodpeckers and the sun was clear in a blue sky.  It seemed like the kind of day that might have the distinctive notes of Woodlark singing, and with at least six birds in song, flying over, and perched in conifers on Budby Common, it felt like spring had stepped up a gear.  I love hearing my first Woodlark of the year, and always wonder if the habitat on the Mosses south of home are too wet and cold to support a population of them.  Wishful thinking, perhaps, but I hope I live to see the day they come (back?) to Manchester.

While in the area, it would have been madness not to at least stop off at the raptor viewpoint at Welbeck, though when we pulled up at 9.40am and there wasn’t another person in sight we wondered if we were wasting our time.  Three minutes later K shouted that he had seen a Goshawk, and we were treated to some absolutely incredible scope views of displaying and circling birds.  We looked at one another – one of those days was unfolding in front of us.  One of those “see all the things you hope for” days.  They’re rare in birding, but when they happen, they’re absolutely incredible.  The kind of day you talk about for years afterwards, when you reminisce at the pub following a twitch or a long weekend.  The kind of day that becomes a little legend, and even the exaggerations are believably mild.  These are the days that fuel us when we miss every bird, when we arrive to "should have been here ten minutes ago, mate, it was showing really well."  When we fumble directions, frustrate ourselves with poor fieldcraft, mis-identify everything.  When we try and fail and swear we won't do it again.  Days like this are the hope that sustains us when other days fail to meet the expectation.

With this run of good fortune giving us energy, we travelled to north Lincolnshire to have a second bite at the Eastern Yellow Wagtail cherry.  On Thursday I’d dipped this bird, spending 3 hours in the cold next to a water processing plant and what appears to be a chicken farm, with four other hardy watchers.  Today, the crowd of over 60 birders were a relaxed group as the Wagtail was present for a solid hour, moving between the recently ploughed field and a grassy patch behind the water treatment centre.  I was impressed by the distinctiveness of this bird, and the way the call stood out from the more familiar wagtail calls.  I hadn’t really realised quite how rare this bird is, with only 35 records for Britain and Ireland, and the vast majority in the extremities of Scilly, Shetland, Cornwall and Cork. 

It was now barely 11am, and we had seen all four of the birds we had set out to find.  We decided to make our way home to try and catch the rugby (a bit tight...) by way of a stop at St Aidan’s RSPB in West Yorkshire.  It was here that we missed our only bird of the day, failing to see the Red-Crested Pochard that has been there for weeks.  Consolation took the form of Little Owl, and there was no sense of disappointment as we headed home, already composing the stories about the day we saw (almost) everything we set out to see - a store of positivity set aside against the next time we miss out.