North of England: into the wild hills and exposed coasts for Hen Harrier, Black Grouse and Purple Sandpiper

I've been very fortunate to meet some excellent people this year, and some of those friendships have led to the best wildlife experiences of the year.  My 12 months of birding has given me plenty to reflect on, but one of the weight-bearing beams that forms the foundation of my enjoyment of birding is that I get more enjoyment helping others see birds than I do twitching new birds for myself.  I'm not averse to a twitch, and I enjoy seeing the novel, but nothing comes close to finding birds to help others see them for the first time.  Lee suggested a couple of days birding in Northumberland to try and see Snow Bunting, Bar-tailed Godwit, Hen Harrier and other highlights of the area, and I'd been in a bit of a much-needed break from birding after pushing so hard on the Big Year.  This was the perfect chance to just spend time having a laugh with a good bloke who is growing and learning fast as a birder, and see some wildlife in a way that creates connections with the bird, the environment, the wider ecosystem and a friend.

An early arrival at Newbiggin-on-Sea to try and find Snow Bunting (no sign!) was hampered by a torrential downpour that soaked us to the skin in only ten minutes.  The camera stayed in the car for fear of water-logging, and my scope's stay-on waterproof case is still drying out two days later.  The wind was blowing directly onshore and I wondered what might be out on the sea concealed by great curtains of rain.  Red-breasted Merganser landed on a rocky channel, Eider flew past low over the water, and a Velvet Scoter flew north close in.  I rarely see Velvets so close and it was a pleasure to encounter a bird that we so rarely see in the north west.  As the rain eased and the wind got up, we began to see birds more distantly over the water with visibility clearing, and a single Little Auk whirred past so low I was worried it would get rolled by a wave!  They never do though, and their preternatural sense of the movement of the troughs of waves hid it from view as it curved around the north side of the rocky promontory.  Three Red-throated Divers flew past at the perfect time to compare the colours with a close-sitting Black-throated Diver and flocks of Sanderling whirled from the wrack of seaweed on the exposed beach as a Sparrowhawk bulleted past low down.

Cold, wet, ready for a brew, we travelled up the coast to Druridge Pools.  Druridge Bay is a place where I've had an epiphany earlier this year as the first location I went birding properly following my breakdown in November of 2024.  I have a real soft spot for the area, and the lasting effects of that freezing January day are that I'm still here, still birding.  Flocks of Tufted Ducks, Wigeon, Lapwings and Pink-footed Geese were abundant, and it's still one of my favourite experiences of wildlife to witness large numbers of birds on wetlands.  There's something about wildfowl in number that is breath-taking to see - the spectacle, the sense of an ancient process of movement and feeding, the chance of something unusual in the flock all combine to make me feel alive.  When I see this kind of whirling dance of species changing position on the wet grassland and pools it feels like I have caught the edge, the corner of something vast and, if not sentient, then at least vital, alive in the deepest sense.  I'm only capable of anthropomorphising it, but it's much more an animal vitality - the merest corner of awareness of connection to a heart-beat of international scale that encompasses habitat-sized areas of living creatures all in the tidal pull of life.  It sounds like Pink-footed Geese, and that sound is as autumn as it gets.

There on one of the pools was the low-slung shape of a Long-tailed Duck, all chocolate browns and smudged white in winter plumage, and it was soon joined by a second, darker bird.  Probably a male and a female, they dived and fed and preened for an hour as we watched.  Marsh Harriers hunted over the reeds, and then, with a trumpeting call nine Whooper Swans flew in low over the hide from behind us.  They circled and landed, a noisy, glamorous, glistening white angel-winged flight distracting us from the flocks swirling behind them.  Ten minutes of drinking, dipping heads low and then arching long necks up and back to swallow water, and they took to the skies again, powerful lift-offs powering them south.

Hungry, seeking a chippy lunch, we travelled back to Newbiggin to try and see the Snow Bunting in the drier weather.  Still no sign, but a new experience for me was to see Purple Sandpipers no more than 20 metres away against sand-coloured stone while I ate chips and gravy!  One particular bird posed so well that I spent a good ten minutes just admiring the red-orangeness of the base of its bill and its legs.  A beautiful white-edged plumage on the wings fading to grey-edged black on the back giving the slightest hint of the soft purple tones that give it its name and the lines of spots down the belly and I was delighted with how much detail I could see.  

We spent an hour at East Chevington to see thousands of Golden Plover and Lapwing constantly spooking each other into flight and then two hours at Widdrington Lake hoping for and failing to see Harriers coming into roost, and the light was gone.  To the hotel, three pints of great local ale (Alnick Gold) and an incredible dinner, and pretty much asleep before 9pm!  Breakfast was just as good as dinner, and we left fortified with enough calories for a whole day.  Arriving at Low-Newton we quickly picked up what we think was a Siberian Chiffchaff in the fog, but visibility was so poor that we decided to head back towards home and stop off at Geltsdale on the way, hoping for Black Grouse and Hen Harrier.

I love Geltsdale - there's something magnificent about that landscape, and I have have some meaningful experiences of wildlife there, but when it's quiet there, boy, is it quiet!  For two hours we saw huge numbers of thrushes, mostly Fieldfare, alongside a massive flock of Starlings and absolutely nothing else.  Walking the circuit round Stagsike trail we'd given up on seeing anything really, and were just enjoying the hike and a deep conversation when I picked up movement low across the peak of the hill in front of us.  Lifting bins up mid-sentence I caught the square white rump of a ringtail Hen Harrier - Lee's absolute top target bird.  I couldn't quite believe it, so I didn't really put any of the excitement that was bubbling up inside me into my voice when I said I had a Hen Harrier, and I'm pretty sure Lee didn't believe me at first!  And then the Harrier broke the skyline and soared over the hill in a brief ray of bright sunlight, the crisp white rump showing clearly as it glided down over the crest and away from us.  The elation of seeing such a gorgeous bird after what could have turned into a disappointing birding day made me laugh out loud like a giddy kid.

One final surprise was in store as we neared the car park.  Picking through the swirl of chack-chacking Fieldfares to see Mistle Thrush and hundreds of Starlings I clocked a black and white bird flying up from a drystone wall to perch on the roof of a building.  Not quite able to believe it, but absolutely aware that there's not much to confuse a male Black Grouse with, I fired off some shots of the distant bird just to confirm I wasn't seeing things.  Black Grouse are strange birds, their behaviour is so completely different to Red Grouse in my experience that I'm constantly surprised by them.  I've seen a couple of leks, but much more often I see Black Grouse flying to perch or roost in the tops of bushes and small trees - I've seen more 15 feet off the ground than I have skulking in heather or lekking on short turf.

A fitting way to end a two day birding odyssey, I reflected that this type of birding is much more satisfying for me than the twitch to a GPS coordinate to find a bird that someone else has found.  There's nothing intrinsically wrong with that at all, and I'd be a hypocrite to criticise something I do often in birding; but the satisfaction of finding a bird in its habitat by being in the habitat, walking and using senses to find a bird for ourselves, and sharing that experience with good friends left a less glamorous but deeper warmth of positivity.