Killdeer, White-tailed Eagles, Great-tailed Grackles and Great Bustards: Of megas and "plastic"

It was always going to happen: the first real big twitch of 2026.  Killdeer has been a bird I've wanted to see for some time and I had endured the frustration of seeing a couple appear in Western Ireland over the last few years.  This twitchable bird in Hampshire was associating with Lapwings at the rear of the tiny Ripley Reservoir and had spent five days happily doing its thing.  News on Friday broke that the farmer of the land next door to the reservoir was planning a shoot for Saturday 24th January; with Pheasant season ending on February 1st he will have been trying to maximise his return.  The palpable anxiety as a thousand twitchers searched for the legal start times of shoots (there is none) and tried to work out what time they would have to set off on Saturday morning to be there by first light but before the reasonable time of 9.30 when idiots with guns would scare the living shit out of everything in a mile radius lent something of a desperate air to this twitch.  

We set off from my house at 2am, Nas driving, Muhummed snoring gently in the front, Kris pretending to be awake to my left, and me trying to stay awake and provide some company for the generous driver.  Five hours to the very busy layby in Hampshire where we had been advised to park and couldn't, but following Andy S's advice we left the car on Anna Lane and walked the long way round to the viewing area.  As the light grew in the sky we saw Tawny Owl and disturbed some sort of deer, unidentifiable in the dark.  A Woodcock swept past in a panic and we passed the piggery as the light grew strong enough to see by.  Muhummed shouted, "Eagle!" and we looked right to see no fewer than four White-tailed Eagles soar over the porcine pens.  I know they're from a release scheme.  I know people won't call them wild.  I know purists will tut.  But while they debate whether or not these birds count, like a VAR call on a marginally offside goal, I'm watching eagles flying over my head.  Nothing in my emotional response to seeing these birds is bothered about why they're in this part of the world.  If you can't watch an eagle and be stirred by the experience regardless of their perceived wildness, then maybe you're in the wrong hobby.  Or need to check your pulse.

Little Gull in winter, on a tiny reservoir?  Yes please.  And there it was, all smoky underwing and dancing flight, and I watched it and forgot I was supposed to be looking for a Killdeer.  I'd managed to force my way to the front of the well-behaved and helpful crowd by virtue of being willing to stand in a puddle, and got my scope set up in half a foot of cold and muddy water.  It was only minutes before someone more talented than me found the Killdeer in a little hollow near Lapwings, hunkered down with its back to us.  As the light grew, the wader preened and moved a little, and stretched out.  I had really good scope views, but the wind and light and crowd was against me getting any decent footage.  A couple of blurry screen grabs showing the three bands would have to do.  This wader is a real favourite of mine - something about the name snagged my imagination in my pre-teen years, and I have half-remembered mental images of a bird that could actually kill deer in my head.  No wonder I thought they were cool.  Seeing one in the flesh and having been awake all night I found myself laughing under my breath: 14cm of Killdeer is never going to be enough to kill deer.

With a packed agenda, we left the Killdeer and aimed for Acres Down in the New Forest, hoping for Lesser Spotted Woodpecker, Green Woodpecker, Hawfinch, Crossbill, Dartford Warbler and more.  The strong wind and changeable weather forced many passerines to hunker down and hide, and it was more luck than judgement when I chanced upon a male Hawfinch high in a tree.  The rest of our targets eluded us, as did Great Grey Shrike at Shatterford, though male Merlin perched up distantly was nice compensation.  From there we decided that a visit to the Great-tailed Grackle in Holbury was in order.  While the eagles from sunrise were a release scheme bird, there is no doubt about the wildness of the Great-tailed Grackle.  Definitely a wild bird, but since it got here on a boat, it will never be considered wild enough for the British list.  This seems like nonsense to me, honestly.  I would bet that a significant majority of passerines that arrive here from the Americas perch on a boat or oil rig on their way through, especially if storm-blown, and they'll take food from the boat in exactly the same way a Robin will take seed from your bird table.  Why wouldn't they?  It's literally survival.  The fact that the Grackle is clearly thriving here is interesting in terms of colonisation - what's stopping more of these resourceful and intelligent-looking birds from hopping on an oil tanker in the Gulf of Mexico and rocking up in Britain?  Whatever the wider issues of boat-assisted acceptance on the BOU list, this bird performed like it wanted the applause, sidling up to people and keeping a piercing eye on the crowd of birders and photographers.  Catching worms, the Grackle had a wash in a puddle and retired to the top of its caravan like a fading B list actor surrounded by the lesser talents his later years demanded he work with.  His encore was to take a crisp left for him on a fence post; anything for a free lunch.

The way home took us across Salisbury Plains and given that Muhummed had never been to see the Great Bustards there ("they're plastic, they don't count"), we parked at Enford and walked half a mile along a minor road into the fields.  Red Kites were everywhere, though the wind and rain had increased and forced all the passerines down.  The Bustard flock rose suddenly into the air, heavy bodies and powerful wings fighting gravity, golden and brown in stripes against bright white and bold black, grey heads fading against the damp and drizzly atmosphere.  Following them circling we were astonished by the grace and speed of the Bustards, and I found myself fervently hoping they would come in close so we could see them on the ground.  My wish was soon granted, and as we watched the birds interact Muhummed shouted that he had found a male Hen Harrier overhead.  That magical ten minutes with these charismatic creatures was superb and I found myself thinking again about any kind of organisation or group-think that would passively discourage people from going to see these birds, citing that they can't be counted.  Counted for what?  A tick list?  OK, no problem.  No "tick".  But I'm going to watch them every chance I get because I don't tick birds, I watch them.  I'm going to allow myself the thrill of their flight, and I'm going to indulge myself unapologetically in the glossy plumage of a ship-assisted Grackle even if it won't go on my list, and I'm going to be left groping for the right expletive to display my awe when four released eagles soar past.

The Killdeer was the "mega" today, but it was by far the least exciting experience of a bird on the whole trip.  Instead it was the birds that fail to make the official grade that I have in my head tonight as I write.  Sometimes plastic really is fantastic.