"It's not there, lads." Lapland Bunting, Woodlark and Goshawk

A 7am set off to sunny Saltfleetby was a luxurious lie-in by spring birding standards, and we enjoyed clear skies and clear roads all the way, making good time.  We parked and made our way to the area where recent sightings included Shore Lark and Little Ringed Plover, and our actual target bird, Lapland Bunting.  I've seen a few Laplands over the last five years, but they're becoming harder to see, perhaps due to changes of migration patterns and almost certainly the spectre of climate change.  I've rarely seen one close up, but this bird seemed to be giving very good views to those with patience enough to wait for it to appear.

As we approached the scrapes and dunes where it had been last reported we were stopped by a man who said, "it's not here lads, I think it flew out in the clear sky last night."  Not what you want to hear after a drive for a bird.  Nevertheless, we decided to have a walk around and see what we could see, and the first Little Ringed Plovers of my year were a nice bonus.  Listening to Lapland Bunting calls as a little bit of homework revision in the car on the way over paid off at this point as we heard an unusual call which we tentatively identified as a Lapland Bunting, followed by a silhouetted bird dropping into grass cover.  Distinctly different from the many Skylarks and Linnets that comprised the majority of the passerines on site, we waited for the bird to reappear and within moments we had eyes on a Lapland Bunting.  The black on the head and face was still filling in for summer plumage, but those rich chestnut tones and the long wings were stunning.  We even got a good look at the elongated rear toe (obvious in the third picture down) of the bird from which it gets its proper name of Lapland Longspur.

The bird flew round us in a wide circle a couple of times and landed on the sand not far from where we knelt.  Stripping seeds from grass, it wandered in close and the four or five people who had managed to get on it took thousands of photographs of what has become a bird that's difficult to connect with compared even to the recent past.  

One gentleman asked us what plans we had for the rest of the day, and we said we were heading to Budby and Welbeck, and we'd see from there.  His negative response; Goshawk difficult from Welbeck at the moment, and him and his mate had missed Woodlark at Budby the last three visits - might want to make other plans.

We decided not to let that negative news affect us.  It's too easy to assume you won't see the bird you're looking for, but, and this is crucial, you definitely won't see it if you don't search the habitat where it lives.  We arrived at Budby and walked our usual route around the woodland and common, ears alert for the yodelling song and mellow fluted contact calls of Woodlark, but the sun chose this moment to hide away behind a bank of clouds.  Notoriously reticent to sing unless the sun is shining, the Woodlarks either weren't in the area or were silently waiting out the cloud.  We kept walking, hearing Green and Great Spotted Woodpeckers, singing Linnets and Stonechats chasing each other around territories with no sign of Woodlark.  Maybe we should have listened to the man telling us that they're not here, lads. 

Approaching a gate we heard a single call that just sounded lark-like, and two birds flushed up from the edge of the track running perpendicular to the path we were on.  They settled on bare mud and a twig not more than 20 metres from us and sat there for the next 15 minutes - a pair of Woodlark!  I have seen many of these beautiful birds in the last five years, but never as close up and settled in one place as these birds were.  It was a joy just to watch them feed and sub-sing to each other, a constant quiet chorus of contact calls between the birds.  Flushed by a dog off the lead, the birds flew rapidly away and we left, buoyed by our good fortune.  We aimed at Welbeck raptor viewpoint hoping for Goshawk.

We've traditionally done well at Welbeck, usually seeing Goshawk fairly quickly in the kettles of Buzzard and Red Kite, but as we pulled up today there was only one car and an observer just packing up.  "Nothing here, lads," he said by way of greeting, "I've been here an hour and no luck.  Been anywhere else before this?"  We mentioned Budby, and he jumped in with, "yeah, I was there for a few hours and saw nothing.  No larks about."  We said we'd seen up to four.  He didn't look ecstatic about our success.  I guess nobody likes missing out on birds they could have seen.  "Well, you won't see the hawks.  They've not been seen here for a few days and such and such a well known birder (I paraphrase - I never remember the names of local birding greats) reckons they've not been present for ten days." And with that, he drove off.  I sometimes wonder if people genuinely struggle to rejoice with those who rejoice more than they mourn with those who mourn.  I know we all want to see more birds, but there are some people who seem to relish sharing bad news.  Maybe they think they're doing us a favour, saving us wasting time, but it's not like we're going to drive away from the watch point simply because someone else hadn't seen the bird.  We had to give it a go - that's the whole idea behind birding.

This is Kristian Wade's picture - the Goshawk stayed too distant for my camera.

We were lucky: it took us eight minutes to see first a big female and then a male Goshawk in display flight alongside more than 20 Buzzards and 3 Red Kites.  The distinctive flight shouted Gos as soon as we laid eyes on the bird, and scope views were absolutely brilliant in the sunshine, the wing shape and the bulge along the flanks, and even clear views of the white eye stripe to make me wish I had a more powerful camera.

So we've been lucky, and we've worked to find our birds, but I'm glad we ignored the well-intentioned advice of the people we met today or we would have left without seeing anything at all.  I wonder how many times I've delivered negative news to a hopeful birder, especially one less experienced, and how deflated that's left them feeling.  Perhaps when we say, "it's not here," but really mean, "I couldn't find it" we should say that instead of assuming that the bird has gone and taking the wind out of the sails of people who are going to have a look for the bird anyway.