Life has gotten exponentially busier for me during the last few months: I’m adjusting to a new role at work, I’m unpacking at glacial speed after moving house, and trying to find time to keep my side projects living and breathing. With nothing planned for the weekend, there was only one sensible choice in the face of this mountain of responsibilities—ignore it all and go birding.
With favourable weather forecast for the weekend and some friends travelling up, it seemed like a perfect time to book a couple of cheap pitches and begin a whistlestop tour of the highlights of springtime East Yorkshire birdwatching.
The weekend began with an early departure, but our trust in the weather report slowly dissolved as we headed east and drove further into a canopy of angsty grey cloud cover. After a brief stop at the Skelton Lake services, and resisting the RSPB viewing platform (but not an Egg McMuffin) in the interest of time, we continued on to our first stop of the weekend: Wykeham Raptor Viewpoint.
If you’ve never been to this site and you have the ability to get to North Yorkshire, it’s a must-visit on a warm day in late spring or early summer. The viewpoint consists of a handful of wooden benches overlooking a mosaic of pine plantation and rural countryside, allowing visitors to scan from an elevated vantage point as raptors hunt, display and traverse the valley’s topography.
Wykeham boasts reliable views of locally-breeding Honey buzzards and Goshawks, as well as more widespread raptors including Buzzards, Red kites and Peregrines. Alongside the A-list predatory birds, the viewpoint is a good spot for watching Crossbills and other passerines of conifer forest.
This female Crossbill was gracious enough to break up monotony of staring at the same two hills by posing nicely on top of this conifer.
That all being said… it was crap. The weather report was a complete farce; the breeze was persistent and biting, and a thick fleece of cloud kept any spring sunshine off our chilled fingertips as we desperately clutched optics to fruitlessly scan a quiet horizon. The complete absence of raptors was occasionally punctuated by a distant Buzzard or a Kestrel zipping past at high speed, but there was a palpable lack of our target birds: Honey buzzard and Goshawk. The morning’s consolation prize came in the form of a small flock of Crossbills, their entrance announced by their characteristic ‘clip clip clip’ call.
Disheartened by a serious raptor deficiency, we decided to lift our spirits by leaving to have lunch. But, not just anywhere—at a spot at which every species of British pigeon and dove can be seen through a windscreen. About 20 minutes to the north, on a country lane adjacent to a former pub, is a roadside lawn on which the residents feed their garden birds. These include the expected Chaffinches and tits, but also, amazingly, Turtle doves. As we sat with bins in one hand and an egg mayo sandwich in the other, a single Turtle dove tentatively picked through the scattered seed whilst periodically retreating to a large holly bush behind the stone walls of the property. A bittersweet reminder of British countryside of the past.
Here's to hoping one day these exquisite birds might be, once again, a commonplace feature of our summers.
As well as these scarce and exquisite migrants, the feeding station spoiled us with excellent views of chattering Tree sparrows, vibrant Yellowhammers, and (as previously alluded to) the remaining five species of UK columbids: Wood pigeon, Stock dove, (feral) Rock dove and Collared dove.
High off the cholesterol of several eggs, not to mention the dopamine of some successful birding, we decided to try our luck with a second session at the Raptor Viewpoint. Upon our return, the cloud cover had started to dissipate, allowing a few encouraging beams of sunlight to slink through.
As is always the case, some slightly more patient birders notified us that, in our absence, not only had a Honey buzzard been spotted distantly, but a Goshawk had soared over the viewpoint at relatively close distance. We thanked them for their insight with tooth-grinding envy and trained our optics back on the horizon. At least momentarily, the odds seemed to be turning in our favour, as several Buzzards began riding the strengthening thermals and commenced their rollercoaster-like diving displays. But, after the passage of a couple more uneventful hours, and our friends’ dog had chewed all available sticks into sawdust, the allure of a pint and a pub meal became too much to resist. We admitted defeat.
The next morning, I awoke early to a combination of gentle sunshine, distant Skylark song, and the unmistakable sound of an old bloke coughing up what sounded like a lungful of PVA glue in the campervan behind our tent. The plan for the day almost goes without saying; a spring trip to the coast of East Yorkshire isn’t complete without a visit to the spectacle that is Bempton Cliffs in the breeding season. With our tent efficiently and carefully bungled into a carrier bag, we hopped in the cars and got on our way.
Despite arriving a solid thirty minutes before the facilities were open, the site’s volunteers were already corralling visitors into the various overflow car parks. That’s one downside of high-profile reserves; as soon as the weather hits t-shirt temperature and the sun appears, parking spots disappear faster than a Peregrine with IBS. A stark contrast to the frigid blustery conditions at the Raptor Viewpoint the previous morning, the weather at Bempton was a miracle: bright, warm, and with only enough cool breeze to allow the birds to effortlessly alight on their cliffside perches. We geared up, slathered ourselves with enough factor 50 to protect us from a close-distance nuclear detonation, and excitedly hurried down to the cliffs.
You might think you have nuisance neighbours, but at least they don't shamelessly engage in public gull-on-gull action within 3 inches of your face.
Seabird cities during the breeding season are something that have to be experienced first-hand to grasp the real energy of it all, and the colonies of Bempton Cliffs are no exception. The air is filled with the raucous cacophony of Kittiwakes and auks jostling for prime position on the sheer cliff faces; the feeling of locking eyes with the imposing presence of a Gannet as it rises ethereally on the updraft from the sea below; the tangy aroma of literal s**t-tonnes of guano being baked in the midday sun.
With their neat white eyeliner and dashing tuxedos, the only thing sharper than their eponymous blade-like beak is a Razorbill's dress sense.
A pair of Gannets, either really in love or really disagreeing about something.
It’s hard not to get lost in the magic of this hurricane of dinosaurs tirelessly rallying fish from the turbulence of the North Sea to the precipitous ledges hundreds of feet above. Ledge-nesting Guillemots squabbling alongside burrow-digging Puffins; dainty Kittiwakes criss-crossing the paths of comparatively gargantuan Gannets; resident Jackdaws milling around loafing Fulmars that could well have just returned from a foraging trip hundreds of miles away.
A Guillemot dozing in the midday sun; one of the few animals that will comfortably nap on a 6-inch ledge above 300ft drop.
Despite being kinda sick of their image plastered onto every piece of merchandise at clifftop reserves, it's easy to see why everyone loves Puffins. They look like if Picasso was asked to paint a duck from memory but ran out of colours after finishing the bill and feet.
We spent some time gawking (a term I now assert means staring at gannets and auks) from the each of the site’s increasingly crowded wooden viewing platforms, and at one point even crossed a Gannet nervously walking down the footpath. With the afternoon drawing on and feeling a little crestfallen from our lack of Corn buntings, we retreated to the café and I caved into buying an eye-wateringly priced panini (which was, admittedly, amazing) whilst we plotted the next move. In the remaining few hours before having to face the bleak reality of Sunday evening blues, we agreed to try our luck at an alleged Red-backed shrike twitch further down the coast at another site that rightly holds legendary status in Yorkshire birding: Flamborough Head.
We headed to the most recent shrike pin without realising the multiple records related to different locations, and found ourselves in the middle of wheat field. Aside from not looking anything like typical shrike habitat, the area lacked any of the features described in the Bird Guides record, and we were later informed by another birdwatcher that the record was erroneous. To avoid being mistaken for Theresa May, we retraced our steps and decided to hedge our bets by betting that a hedge would provide us with a rarity, so we spent the last hour or so at a nearby Marsh warbler twitch.
Marsh warblers are the sort of bird that make non-birders scratch their chin after they question a group of silent strangers staring at a bush, only to be presented with a picture of what can only be described as the most generic brown passerine imaginable. Furthermore, to the untrained eye, they’re virtually visually indistinguishable from their cousin the Reed warbler—a common and easily accessible breeding migrant. It’s often feasible to explain to indifferent friends and family why you’ve spent annual leave and a considerable amount of fuel money to twitch something extravagant like a Hoopoe or Golden oriole, but I’d argue that sometimes the Little Brown Jobs have equally worthy appeal.
For some, it’s a box to tick and another addition to the list—and look, if that’s the incentive that gets people out birding and enjoying the natural world, godspeed to them. In addition to that, I can’t help but imagine the story of this unassuming little chap; probably blown off course by strong southeasterlies on its migration from southeast Africa to central Europe. Dodging falcons, kites and cats, this fella may well have been aiming for a reedbed in Poland, but now has found himself in a scrubby roadside hill in the East Riding of Yorkshire— singing his unique erratic song to deaf ears to an assemblage of warblers that don’t speak his language. And that’s not because the local birds have a thick Yorkshire accent.
My pal George and I joined a small fluctuating group of birders that were intently investigating a shrubby bank, whilst our partners (quite understandably) agreed they’d spent enough time at unsuccessful twitches and continued down the road to bask in some scarce 2024 spring sunshine. Marsh warblers have a bit of a reputation for being skulky birds, but that’s not quite accurate for this one; completely invisible would be a better description. I’d probably have given up if it weren’t for the tantalising glimpse of the bird’s arse-crack after about forty-five minutes of waiting. That time was, at least, interspersed with snippets of bursts of the warbler’s characteristic double-time mimicry-laden song. But then, after about two hours of some of the most riveting treewatching of my life, I finally caught a multi-second glimpse of this handsome little bird amongst the sun-dappled canopy of a small birch, before it flitted off and melted back into visual noise of the surrounding foliage. After the frustration of the Raptor Viewpoint, Corn buntings and Red-backed shrike, we revelled in our small victory and called it a day.
It’s moments like this that make twitching, and birdwatching in general, such a rewarding hobby. Not just the excitement and relief of finally seeing a target bird, but the experience as a whole. The planning of the trip, booking a bed or a pitch, prepping the snacks and road trip playlist, the beer (or four) in the pub afterwards, the jokes at the twitch, the quality time with like-minded people that becomes increasingly rare in adult life. Especially if you find yourself in an environment in which it’s difficult to share your passions with those around you, it can feel a little like the lonely warbler singing a song that falls on deaf ears. But, if you’re fortunate enough to be able to organise experiences like this for yourself, it’s a reminder there are others out there that sing the same song.
Sean Hennessy
About the author: I’m Sean, and I’m a keen birdwatcher and artist from Cheshire. I’m a manager of ecological data analysts by day, but I spend as much of my free time as possible either ogling wildlife, or illustrating and writing. You can read my previous article about Long-tailed ducks in the ‘Sean’s Blogs’ section, with more coming soon. Cheers!
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