Spotted Crake

My first Bittern was an incredible encounter at Leighton Moss in 1993.  Sitting in Griesdale Hide with the 13 other people on the Bolton YOC long weekend to Arnside, a thin row of reeds in front of us no more than 10 feet away had, unknown to us, concealed a Bittern for all the time we'd been in the hide.  It stepped out right in front of me and I whispered at the top of my lungs, "Bittern!"  I sat and absorbed every detail of the bird as it hunted so close in I could hear its softly splashing footsteps in the shallow water.  We'd been scanning the distant reeds for Bittern shapes, for reeds moving against the breeze, for the shadow of a reedbed enigma and here it was, in touching distance.  

The Water Rails that breed on my patch are incredibly difficult to see.  We know they're present all year - they're so vocal, so loud, so distinctive that you can't fail to catch up with them at some point.  We hear them contact calling the juveniles, and catch the odd glimpse of one disappearing into dense cover seemingly never to reappear.  So when one spent a week openly hunting in a wide, clear stream earlier this year, it was a total treat.  A chance to see again the strangely two-dimensional proportions of these weirdly beautiful birds, the ultra red bill and the delicate patterns that hide them so well in the reeds and undergrowth.

Perhaps the ultra secretive birds of reedbeds capture our attention simply because they're not easy to see.  Though all birds are capable of elusive behaviour, the skulking birds of deep cover are the hardest to connect with.  We've all hunted an interesting warbler around a patch of dense foliage and been frustrated - if you were at the Pale-legged Leaf Warbler twitch at Bempton Cliffs a couple of years back you'll know that five spindly trees can hide a real rarity from the eyes of five hundred people - and we've all wondered where the Great Northern Diver seen on a tiny bit of inland water could possibly be hiding as it submarines about the place.  We've all watched birds vanish in an open sky, and seen waders and even Short-eared Owls evaporate in the sparsest of cover, and don't get me started on being able to hear Quail calling from what sounds like your own actual feet without ever laying eyes on them.  But the reedbed birds are the ones that we prize - seeing one of them in the open is a day to remember - like my Bittern 30-odd years ago that still counts as my best view of one.  

Arriving at Titchwell before 9am we thought we'd avoid the worst of the crowds of people in the hides that were waiting out the appearance of two Spotted Crakes.  We were wrong.  Dozens of people packed into Island and Parrinder Hides and the jostling elbows of optic-encrusted people in not-quite-polite frustration at seeing the shape of the bird before someone sticks their head or arse in front of your telescope so they can see better or take a photo was enough to have me leave the claustrophobic space.  I don't dislike bird hides per se, but I haven't found one yet that's built for a man my size.  I'm a little over 6 feet tall, and invariably find myself stooping, back aching, or with a window frame exactly in my field of view.  Add into that the insufferable proximity of other people and I can feel myself wanting to watch birds without the dubious benefits of being in a crowded shed built for people who get their height from the generational average of 1580CE.  Lee stayed in the hide politely asking the oblivious viewers to not stand in front of his telescope.  I went up on the open path.  I think I got the better views.  

I've seen these gorgeous little rails a number of times down the years at famous reedbed sites, Blacktoft Sands, Burtonmere Wetlands, St Aidan's, and so on, but they were often a glimpse of a shape in the reeds, or, as at St Aidan's, rendered almost invisible by the glare of sunlight on mud and reeds even though the bird was out in the open.  This then, was my 1993 Bittern moment, my Water Rail in the open, my chance to really see a Spotted Crake in glorious technicolour and detail.  The views through the scope were utterly incredible.  My camera work, as so often, leaves much to be desired.  The light was inconstant, harsh, and difficult to predict as the Crake zipped in crazed zigzags between the stems of marsh plants and then stood stock still, it's silvery-spotted golden plumage strangely but absolutely perfect to blend in to a green and brown environment.  I was exclaiming to myself about the joy of the view, "A Crake!" pointing as it bobbed about on the mud, nobody else within ten metres of me as I watched it feed.  A moment of pity for those who had stuck by their seats in the hide, forty metres further back than me, and with the mingled scents and sounds of frustrated humanity to clog their experience.  

I sat on a bench and watched the Crake potter in the middle distance for the next five minutes until suddenly it crouched.  I had my camera settings all wrong, but as it suddenly exploded upwards in a burst of loose feathers I pressed the button and captured a sequence of blurry, over-exposed, unfocused flight shots of a Spotted Crake.  A Crake in the air!  I know they fly - these are migrating birds that spend their winters in Africa and around Pakistan, and they hardly walk to those places, but Crakes are relatively weak flyers in terms of evading predators and so they migrate almost exclusively in the dark.  To see the underwing patterns, the shape of this rare and secretive bird as it flapped and lumbered over the embankment where it was lost to view was a first for me.  Reminiscent of seeing Partridge in flight, or Quail, long legs trailing like a Moorhen, the Spotted Crake was absorbed by the reedbeds and I was left to wonder just what I could capture if I ever actually become good at photography.

Lee and I walked on to the coast, searching the water while understanding that a wind blowing from behind us and pushing birds out to sea was less than ideal.  But an hour on the sand gave us great views of Bar-tailed Godwit, around ten Razorbills, Great Crested Grebe, a pair of Red-throated Divers, a small flock of Red-breasted Mergansers and hundreds of south-bound Swallows.  A juvenile Gannet miles out and sitting on the water with its head tucked in generated a moment of confusion and a squint to see if I could turn it into a Great Skua (or a Brown Booby, that would be nice) but a Gannet it remained as it flapped away behind a pair of Sandwich Terns.

Walking back towards the car park, the second Spotted Crake was active along the reed line in the corner of the Freshwater area which it has been favouring.  Viewable from the path to Parrinder Hide, but only for those taller than 5'8", it stayed in cover and the unforgiving sun destroyed any chance of decent photos.  Further round a gorgeous Curlew Sandpiper complete with peachy breast and elegantly long build stayed triangulated between three feeding Ruff, and I spent as long taking photos of this wader as I had the Crake.  We get regular migration Curlew Sandpipers in Lancashire, but they're always miles out on saltmarsh pools.  It was almost as much of a treat to see this bird close in as it was the Crake.

As we travelled back home I read about Spotted Crakes in preparation for this blog.  As usual, I looked at the origins of the scientific name; Porzana porzana seems to be old Venetian Italian that simply means "Crake".  So, in the spirit of the surprise at even seeing this bird in the open, and my talking to myself in the shock of seeing one fly past, the Spotted Crake is "Crake!  Crake!".  The scientific name perfectly captures for me the ancient Venetian surprise at the encounter with one of the most secretive birds of the reedbed, and the joy of seeing one out in the open.