Montenegro 2 - The Longest Day

There are two days on which I try consistently each year to spend a whole day birding. The first is New Year's Day. The other, if I'm North of the Tropic of Cancer, is 21 June - Midsummer's Day. I'm not obsessive or anything and am not going to go out into a blizzard or a thunderstorm just because the calendar says so; a day or two after 1 January will do, and any day a week either side of Midsummer's day is also fine. But those are the target dates.

The challenge on 1 January is to kick off the New Year in style and ideally to see something juicily rare to set the tone for the coming twelve months. It's a sprint - an effort to cram as many species as possible into a short space of time. Midsummer is different - very different. For a start you've simply got to stay awake and alert for the whole day which, if you structure it the way I did this year, is no mean challenge and means basically setting yourself up for a 19 hour day. But the second element is more subtle. Unless you're very far north in Europe or North America, the second half of June is already becoming a challenging season for birding; many species will have toned down or entirely stopped singing; most trees are in full leaf, making species much harder to see; and then there's the potential problem of heat, which makes birds, and humans for that matter, more torpid and messes with your optics. So, if the New Year's day birdwatch is a sprint, Midsummer is a marathon.

I started my marathon on 22 June at 0300 and was out of the house by 0330. This is excessive, even by the standards of midsummer birding, but I had to drive most of the length of the Montenegrin coastline in order to be in Ulcinj at dawn. Ulcinj is home to the jewel in the crown of CZIP's conservation efforts, and its greatest ongoing success - the preservation of the Ulcinjska Salina (Ulcinj Saltworks) as a going concern with an emphasis on conservation. The Salina is vast. I've been twice now and have barely covered a third of it. Access is by appointment only, and you must take a guide with you. The access costs 5 Euro and the guide costs 20 Euro, and it's a bargain, not least because you're making an infinitesimal contribution to keeping by far the largest wetland on this stretch of the Adriatic coast available for migrating and breeding birds into the future. If you're visiting Montenegro, this is a must-visit location and my best advice is to contact the guide who showed me around, Azra Mujic, on +382 68 64 07 47. If she's not available she can put you in touch with another of the guides for the site.

The view across some of the smaller settlement ponds at Ulcinj. If you're able to magnify this photo there are nesting Collared Pratincoles in the centre of the frame. Alas I forgot to check my camera battery, and it was dead, so for the whole day I was dependent on my phone

I met Azra just after 0500 and we were inside the Salina within a few minutes. The first part of the walk inside the works was disappointing and difficult as we were walking directly into the rising sun, but as we reached the larger settlement ponds deeper inside the works I remembered why I was here; a Stone Curlew (Burhinus oedicnemus) ran furtively across one of the dried-out ponds, a Roller (Caracias garrulus - one half of around 8 pairs at the site) flew past hawking for insects, and then the first of at least 150 Collared Pratincoles (Glareola pratincola) appeared on the ground, followed by Kentish Plovers (Charadrius alexandrinus), Black-winged Stilts (Himantopus himantopus) and Little Terns (Sternula albifrons). In the distance a flock of around 200 Greater Flamingoes (Phoenicopterus roseus), and a single Dalmatian Pelican (Pelicanus crispus), squatting hugely like a boulder emerging from the water. A late, lonely Wood Sandpiper (Tringa glareola) was flushed from a drainage channel, and the stunning, black-headed, short-tailed feldegg race of Yellow Wagtail (Motacilla flava) flitted among the halophilic grasses. On a small bridge a tiny colony of Spanish Sparrows (Passer hispaniolensis) - my first in Montenegro, but my second of this trip after the unexpected and lively colony at Dubrovnik Airport in Croatia.

This photo gives a sense of the sheer size of this fantastic site. It basically stretches to the foot of the hills in the distance.

I spent around four hours here with Azra and added Bee-eaters (Merops apiaster) and a very unexpected Caspian Tern (Hydroprogne caspia) as the day wore on, but by 0930 it was time to move on. I had intended to visit Sasko Lake nearby, but a fuel crisis brought me back to Ulcinj and was followed by indecision. I had thought to stop at Petrovac and/or Buljarica, back up the coast, to look for the Eleonora's Falcons (Falco eleonorae) and Olive-tree Warblers (Hippolais olivetorum) that are reported to frequent the area, but laziness and the lure of the familiar got the better of me and I turned off towards Skadar Lake through the Sozina tunnel before reaching Petrovac.

Greater Flamingoes in flight at Ulcinj

Skadar Lake is a large, karstic, eutrophic lake lying between the Montenegrin capital, Podgorica, and the sea. It's shared with Albania on the Eastern side and is renowned as a major wildfowl refuge in the winter, with tens of thousands of Coots (Fulica atra) staying there regularly, for instance. At this time of year there were a few species I hoped to see, based on past experience - Purple Heron (Ardea purpurea), Penduline Tit (Remiz pendulinus), Ferruginous Duck (Aythya nyroca), Lesser Grey Shrike (Lanius minor), Little Bittern (Ixobrychus minutus) etc. But in some respects the birds here take second place to the scenery, which is breathtaking.

The beginnings of Lake Skadar seen from the road towards Rijeka Crnovejica. Just stunning.

As a reed-fringed, eutrophic lake, it's not easy to get close to lake Skadar, and I've always found the best place is a little bit past the "Jezero" restaurant (which is also home to the information centre for Skadar Lake National Park). If you're travelling from Virpazar towards Podgorica, you pass the restaurant and the tiny village of Bistrice and then take the second turning to the right, which is a gravel road which runs along a wet reedbed, fringed with willows, and ends up on the banks of the Moraca river before it debouches into the lake.

I trundled slowly down this road adding Eastern Olivaceous Warblers (Hippolais pallida) and Golden Orioles (Oriolus oriolus) to my day list. At the end I parked the car and walked up the Moraca on the small track there, which affords views back across the reedbeds - a Purple Heron flew overhead and Whiskered Terns (Chlidonias hybrida) were, as I knew they would be, two a penny. But it was now almost midday and no birds were singing. It was hard to see anything and harder still to concentrate. This I think would be a good place to end the day, but it wasn't a good one to spend the middle of it.

I headed up the spectacular, but slow, old road to Rijeka Crnojevica and from there via Cetinje, the old royal capital of Montenegro, to Lovcen National Park. The first part of this road is winding and slow even by Montenegrin standards, but the scenery is mind-bogglingly beautiful, and there are occasional forests which are worth dipping into (again, perhaps later in the day than I had chosen to be there). I added a few common species and several Eastern Black-eared Wheatears (Oenanthe hispanica melanoleuca) during this drive, but, surprisingly, the only birds of prey were a couple of Honey Buzzards (Pernis apivorus) near the village of Cukvica and a single Common Buzzard (Buteo buteo) just outside Cetinje. Montenegro is, as for many other birds, much better for birds of prey in the Spring when there is a clear passage up the Adriatic coast of birds which apparently have crossed the straits of Otranto from Italy.

The heaving metropolis of Cetinje, the old royal capital of Montenegro. Yes, that's all of it.

Lovcen was my final spot before heading home. It's a vast limestone massif and plateau full of hidden glades and copses, and I've always thought that it should be better for birding then I've ever actually found it to be, which is probably only owing to insufficient local knowledge on my part. In any case its a stunning place to spend any part of any fine day, and a wonderful escape from the heat of the coast in the summer. I elected this time to drive most of the way towards the highest peak, which is crowned by an ugly, communist era radio and meteorological tower (a lower peak is more atmospherically topped by a mausoleum to the legendary Montenegrin king Peter II Petrovic "Njegos", who was born nearby in the village of Njegusi). The views from up here defy belief - all the way down to the knotted coastline of the Kotor/Risan Bay in one direction, and down to Skadar Lake in the other, with the distant, looming, Durmitor massif to the North-East. But there were very few birds. I'd hoped to cheat my way to a Rock Partridge (Aletoris graeca) or a Rufous-tailed Rock-Thrush (Monticola saxatilis), but no dice; a couple of Linnets (Carduelis cannabina), a lovely male Black Redstart (Phoenicurus ochruros) and a Rock Bunting (Emberiza cia) were my only reward.

A poor photo of a great view. Looking down towards Tivat and the Lustica Peninsula from the top of Lovcen.

Or so it seemed. As time ticked by I headed back towards the old road I'd taken a few days before, which descends towards Troijica and thence down to Radanovici. Turning one of countless corners whilst still high on the mountain, I found myself looking at a huge bird of prey, hanging in the wind where the draft from the deep bay of Kotor is channeled up the rock-face. I grabbed my binoculars from the neighbouring seat; a Golden Eagle (Aquila chrysaetos), and an adult to boot, its shaggy mane visible in the lowering light. It banked right, and without a movement of its wings, disappeared out of sight behind the ridge.

In total I spent 19 hours awake and birding this day and was rewarded with 77 species of bird, 2 mammals and a single identifiable reptile species. It's not the list I had hoped for, and there were 14 species of bird I saw on this trip to Montenegro that I didn't see on this day, but it contains some wonderful birds - that Golden Eagle, for instance. If I had the chance again, I'd certainly stay in Ulcinj the night before, so that I didn't have to get up so early, and I'd probably aim to end the day at Skadar Lake and sleep somewhere near there. I'd also definitely stop at Petrovac next time - the detour is probably worthwhile and I haven't seen an Eleonora's Falcon for years, nor have I ever seen an Olive-tree Warbler. One final change I'd make? Do it with somebody else. 19 hours is a long time for any activity, let alone a solitary one.

As always, it's as interesting to note what I didn't see as what I did; no Ravens (Corvus corax), for instance, and no Blue Tits (Parus caeruleus), though both are common enough in Montenegro. Overall, as always at this time of year, it was disappointing for raptors. No doubt I should have heard/seen at least some owls, but they're a very weak spot in my birding and I'm not surprised I missed them all. I've regularly seen Ferruginous Ducks at Skadar Lake, so I was surprised not to see them. And where the hell, to reiterate my question of yesterday's blog, are all the Orphean Warblers (Sylvia hortensis)? And all the Dabchicks (Tachybaptus ruficollis), for that matter?

The full day list follows, and I'll try to add a map of the routes and locations once my older son is here to help me with the technology...

List:

1. Common Shelduck (Tadorna tadorna)
2. Mallard (Anas platyrhynchos)
3. Great Crested Grebe (Podiceps cristatus)
4. Dalmatian Pelican (Pelecanus crispus)
5. Cormorant (Phalacrocorax carbo)
6. Pygmy Cormorant (Microcarbo pygmaeus)
7. Squacco Heron (Ardeola ralloides)
8. Little Egret (Egretta garzetta)
9. Great White Egret (Ardea alba)
10. Grey Heron (Ardea cinerea)
11. Purple Heron (Ardea purpurea)
12. Greater Flamingo (Phoenicopterus roseus)
13. Golden Eagle (Aquila chrysaetos)
14. Marsh Harrier (Circus aeruginosus)
15. Common Buzzard (Buteo buteo)
16. Honey Buzzard (Pernis apivorus)
17. Moorhen (Gallimula chloropus)
18. Coot (Fulica atra)
19. Black-winged Stilt (Himantopus himantopus)
20. Stone Curlew (Burhinus oedicnemus)
21. Collared Pratincole (Glareola pratincola)
22. Kentish Plover (Charadrius alexandrinus)
23. Wood Sandpiper (Tringa glareola)
24. Common Sandpiper (Actitis hypoleucos)
25. Redshank (Tringa totanus)
26. Whimbrel (Numenius phaeopus)
27. Black-headed Gull (Larus ridibundus)
28. Yellow-legged Gull (Larus michahellis)
29. Little Tern (Sternula albifrons)
30. Common Tern (Sterna hirundo)
31. Caspian Tern (Hydroprogne caspia) 
32. Whiskered Tern (Chlidonias hybrida)
33. Rock Dove (Columba livia) - there are apparently "pure" birds on Lovcen
34. Collared Dove (Streptopelia decaocta)
35. Turtle Dove (Streptopelia turtur)
36. Cuckoo (Cuculus canorus)- heard only
37. Nightjar (Caprimulgus europeaus)
38. Swift (Apus apus)
39. Alpine Swift (Tachymorptis melba)
40. Hoopoe (Upupa epops)
41. Bee-eater (Merops apiaster)
42. Roller (Caracias garrulus)
43. Crested Lark (Galerida cristata)
44. Swallow (Hirundo rustica)
45. Red-rumped Swallow (Hirundo daurica)
46. House Martin (Delichon urbicum)
47. White Wagtail (Motacilla alba)
48. (Black-headed) Yellow Wagtail (Motacilla flava feldegg)
49. Robin (Erythacus rubecula) - heard only
50. Nightingale (Luscinia megarhynchos) - heard only
51. Black Redstart (Phoenicurus ochruros)
52. Eastern Black-eared Wheatear (Oenanthe hispanica melanoleuca)
53. Mistle Thrush (Turdus viscivorus)
54. Blackbird (Turdus merula)
55. Whitethroat (Sylvia communis)
56. Subalpine Warbler (Sylvia cantillans)
57. Cetti's Warbler (Cettia cetti) - heard only
58. Great Reed Warbler (Acrocephalus arundinaceus)
59. Eastern Olivaceous Warbler (Hippolais pallida)
60. Chiffchaff (Phylloscopus collybita) - heard only
61. Great Tit (Parus major)
62. Red-backed Shrike (Lanius collurio)
63. Magpie (Pica pica)
64. Jay (Garrulus glandarius)
65. Jackdaw (Corvus monedula)
66. Yellow-billed Chough (Pyrrhocorax graculus)
67. Hooded Crow (Corvus corone cornix)
68. Starling (Sturnus vulgaris)
69. Golden Oriole (Oriolus oriolus)
70. House Sparrow (Passer domesticus)
71. Spanish Sparrow (Passer hispaniolensis)
72. Chaffinch (Fringilla coelebs) - heard only
73. Linnet (Carduelis cannabina)
74. Goldfinch (Carduelis carduelis)
75. Greenfinch (Carduelis chloris)
76. Corn Bunting (Miliaria calandra)
77. Rock Bunting (Emberiza cia)

Mammals:

1. Golden Jackal (Canis aureus) - one glimpsed near Ljesevici
2. Northern White-breasted Hedgehog (Erinaceus roumanicus) - one on the road near Ljesevici

Reptiles:

1. Balkan Green Lizard (Lacerta trilineata) - one on the road near Crmica

Species seen/heard on this trip but not on this day:

1. Sparrowhawk (Accipiter nisus)
2. Kestrel (Falco tinnunculus)
3. Green Sandpiper (Tringa ochropus)
4. Pallid Swift (Apus pallidus) - three seen between Ljesevici and Bigovo the morning after a large thunderstorm, along with many Swifts and one Alpine Swifts. These were my first Pallids for Montenegro, where, as far as I know, they do not breed.
5. Sardinian Warbler (Sylvia melanocephala)
6. Zitting Cisticola (Cisticola juncidis)
7. Wood Nuthatch (Sitta europaea) - heard only
8. Western Rock-nuthatch (Sitta neumayer)
9. Blue Rock-Thrush (Monticola solitarius)
10. Sombre Tit (Parus lugubris)
11. Raven (Corvus corax)
12. Hawfinch (Coccothraustes coccothraustes) - surprisingly common here, as it is throughout the Balkans, in my experience. On this visit seen in Bigovo and behind the walls of Kotor.
13. Cirl Bunting (Emberiza cirlus)
14. Black-headed Bunting (Emberiza melanocephala)

Not quite the end of a wearying day. I still had to wait a bit for my Nightjar.

Montenegro

I lived briefly in Bulgaria in the early 1990s. I was trying to make a name for myself and was so absorbed by politics that I didn't even bother to take my binoculars with me when I went there, an omission that seems to me now to have been bordering on insane. Like Simon Barnes, the sports and birding writer, "the idea of travelling without binoculars seems to me absurd". Or at least it does now but, what can I say? I was young and foolish. The point is that I missed almost all the birding that has made Bulgaria one of the top nature tourism destinations in Europe, and I could have been in on it from the start.

By contrast I've been visiting Montenegro since 2006, and I doubt I've been there once without binoculars. My wife is Montenegrin, and we have a house there, so there's no question at all that I'm thoroughly biased - but I'm convinced that this tiny and stunning country has as much to the offer the birder as Bulgaria or any of the other Balkan countries now setting up their stalls in the ecotourism marketplace. To give an example, although we spend only a few weeks there every year, I've seen 91 species of bird, including 12 species of raptor, in and around the village where our house is, since 2009.

Birding tours are, slowly, taking off, and, thanks to the work of Darko Saveljic and his Centre for Protection and Research of Birds of Montenegro (CZIP) there are, increasingly, facilities and information for even the casual visiting birder. Better still, and far more importantly, there are now habitats under legal protection, where wildlife tourism is promoted. But that protection is tenuous and haphazardly implemented - hunting of migratory birds is depressingly common, for instance, even in protected areas - so the more birders who come and the more the interests of local communities therefore become aligned with conservation rather than rapacious development, the better protection is likely to be afforded to these precious remaining areas.

So, as it happens, I've just come back from ten days in Montenegro - days mainly of swimming and relaxing and working on the house - but naturally with some birding thrown in, including a full day on 22 June, which I think I'll try and write about separately. There's no doubt that the summer months, even including this period of June, are not the best, bird-wise, in this part of the world. Migration season - particularly the Spring migration, and particularly April - are much better and can throw up some fantastic species; I've seen five Pallid Harriers (Circus macrourus) over my house at that time of year, for instance.

The harbour in Bigovo, from the terrace of the "Grispolis" fish restaurant. Absolutely dreadful for birding, but there are rare times when you have to say, "who cares?"

But there are still some stunners to be found, and heard, even now. I arrived at our house in the late afternoon to be greeted by a cacophony of Nightingales (Luscinia megarhynchos), Sardinian Warblers (Sylvia melanocephala), Eastern Olivaceous Warblers (Hippolais pallida), Subalpine Warblers (Sylvia cantillans), Cetti's Warblers (Cettia cetti), Blackbirds (Turdus merula), Turtle Doves (Streptopelia turtur) and Cirl Buntings (Emberiza cirlus). Later in the evening they were joined by Nightjars (Caprimulgus europaeus) and often, though not on this visit, Golden Jackals (Canis aureus) howl like Wolves from the surrounding hills and Scops Owls (Otus scops) whistle mechanically from the scrub. None of these species is particularly easy to see here - the garrigue is thick, so this is a place to get to know your songs. Thanks to my newly-downloaded Collins Bird Guide App, that's easier than it used to be. It's the book, only better.

The scrubby woodland behind and around our house. Home to countless unseen warblers and chats.

On the following morning I headed to the Tivatska Solila - an old salt works near the pleasant town of Tivat now entirely abandoned in terms of the salt, but partly used as a sewage works. Much of the upper drainage of this area has been built on and this, coupled with constant disturbance by bait diggers on the seaward side, and, alas, frequent disturbance by hunters on the landward side in winter, means that the place can be hit and miss. I've had some amazing days here; a great flock of Glossy Ibises (Plegadis falcinellus) fronted by a migrating adult male Pallid Harrier; Common Cranes (Grus grus) beating their way into the face of a raging Bora (as the Tramontana wind is known here); Water Rails (Rallus aquaticus) lined up along a drainage ditch as if in a demonstration of vanishing point perspective by Alberti. But those days have mainly been in the winter and Spring. It was now, although not very hot, obviously summer and the day was definitely on the miss side as many are at this time of year; some patrolling Zitting Cisticolas (Cisticola juncidis), a few Corn Buntings (Miliaria calandra), a Pygmy Cormorant (Microcarbo pygmaeus) or two and a desultory few Great Reed Warblers (Acrocephalus arundinaceus). Not one to write home about.

Tivatska Solila - either heaving with birds or pretty much dead. 

As the heat set in I headed up the old road towards Njegusi on the top of the Lovcen Massif. This is one of the great drives of Europe - a series of switchbacks and hairpin bends from sea level to around 1000 metres or so up what to all intents and purposes is a largely sheer rock face. It's basically a single-track road and not for the faint of heart, but then the Montenegrin bus drivers manage to bring coaches up and down it, so maybe I just need to man-up a bit. I had headed up for the birds - Yellow-billed Choughs (Pyrrhocorax graculus) and House Martins (Delichon urbicum) that nest in a cave and zip in and out like bats - a vestige of what their nesting habits in Europe must have been like until a couple of thousand years ago - but I ended up staying for my first cevapi and kajmak of the year. These words will be meaningless to the uninitiated, but are music to the ears, and the tongues, of balkanophiles such as myself.

A thatched bothy in Lovcen National Park. It's not just the birds that should bring you here. The wild flowers are out of this world, and there's great herpetology for those with the eye for it.

Inspired by this the next day I took myself to Kotor. The city itself is stunning but tiny and can be explored and savoured in a comfortable hour, but after that, tempted as you may be by the impossibly vertiginous city walls, do not try to climb them from the inside. The secret, instead, is to take the path that begins behind the small water works just outside the walls. This is the true "Ladder of Cattaro", as it was known after the city's Venetian moniker, and again it winds all the way up to Njegusi. For much of the nineteenth century this was the only road linking the tiny independent Kingdom of Montenegro, centred on the Lovcen massif, with the coast which was then under the control of Austria-Hungary, and it was built for mule traffic. Mules are sturdy animals, of course, but not known for their enthusiasm or willingness to put themselves out. As a consequence, this track, now used only for walking, climbs the rock at a stately pace and angle. It's hard going merely because it's all uphill, but it's a good deal easier than the stairs inside the wall, it's free, and its much, much better for birding. It's a reliable place for a few Balkan specialities - Blue Rock Thrush (Monticola solitarius), Sombre Tit (Parus lugubris), Western Rock-Nuthatch (Sitta neumayer) and Eastern Black-eared Wheatear (Oenanthe hispanica melanoleuca) were all seen on this visit, for instance, and I've regularly seen Eastern Orphean Warblers (Sylvia hortensis crassirostris) in the past here too. Yellow-billed Choughs come all the way down to sea level here, particularly in the winter, but they're common enough at the level of the top of the walls even now. I've also heard reports of Rock Partridges (Alectoris graeca) from that altitude upwards, but not seen them myself. One secret of this site is to come early. It is increasingly popular with hikers - a phenomenon of the last year or two which is bound to increase, because it's freaking gorgeous - but more importantly you're shaded from the sun in the morning if you start early, and it's baking if you're too late.

The country around the ladder of Cattaro and the stunning views it affords. The old road, now a path, is visible in the foreground, and this photo gives a good indication of the comfortable angle it affords, making it a long, but easy walk up to Njegusi.

On the way back I stopped between the villages of Ljesevici and Bigovo. Last year I found a few pairs of nesting Black-headed Buntings (Emberiza melanocephala) up here, and sure enough there was at least one singing male there this time too. But neither here, nor in Bigovo, nor in Kotor - all places I saw the species last year - could I find a single Orphean Warbler. What's happened to them all?

The extensive Garrigue between Ljesevici and Bigovo. Home to the common Mediterranean species and to Black-headed Buntings.

Spring in Belgium and the Netherlands

I've been travelling a lot since my last post. Some of my trips allow time for a day added here or there for birding. That's been the case for travels I've written about already on this Blog, and it was the case when I was in America at the end of April, which I'll write about shortly. But there are other trips - and I had three during the course of last month, to Nairobi, Addis Ababa and Berlin, where you basically see nothing but the inside of hotels, Ministries and cars.

These trips have had me more away from home in Brussels than in it, and in these circumstances, where time with the family is at a premium, I've had limited scope for birding while at home. But I've been constantly aware of the passage of time - of the Spring coming and being on its way to going, and with me barely being able to stir outside Brussels to take it all in.

So it was with mixed emotions that I registered my first Common Swifts (Apus apus) on Wednesday last week (6 May), dashing over the grey rooftops of Brussels with exultant screams. The first reaction, of course, was delight:

They’ve made it again,
Which means the globe’s still working, the Creation’s
Still waking refreshed, our summer’s
Still all to come --
And here they are, here they are again

...as Ted Hughes put it, rather aptly.

But the second was deflation. Swifts are almost the last Spring migrants to reach us in North-West Europe, so if they're here it must mean that the rush is over and I've missed it almost entirely for another year.

I hadn't, of course. That's impossible if you keep your eyes and ears open; the first Chiffchaffs (Phylloscopus collybita) singing in Brussels in the third week of March; the first Blackcap (Sylvia atricapilla) in the garden in the first week of April. But I've seen the migration in Montenegro in the Spring - a great press of birds tumbling over each other in their frenzy to feed and move on - Pied Flycatchers (Ficedula hypoleuca), Wood Warblers (Phylloscopus sibilatrix), Garden Warblers (Sylvia borin), Redstarts (Phoenicurus phoenicurus), Yellow Wagtails (Motacilla flava)... the cast changing day-by-day but the numbers always defying belief, like a vast, disorganised production of Aida. I knew that wasn't going to see that sort of thing here, but I knew I was missing out nonetheless.

I did have one day's birding on the Southern Dutch coast near Antwerp on 10 April which had brought me a gorgeous summer-plumaged Black-tailed Godwit (Limosa limosa), my first Swallows (Hirundo rustica) in Europe this year and a couple of singing Bluethroats (Luscinia svecica) - my Dad's favourite unseen bird and always good for a thrill, ever since I first saw one in the wastes of arctic Russia in 1993.

My son standing on the sea wall at the Verdronken Land van Saeftinge where I took him birding on 10 April 

But, good as that day had been, I did still feel that I'd missed the boat. So, on Saturday, I decided to see if I was right and headed to Breskens, again on the Dutch coast, and a famous minor migration choke-point where migrants following the Flemish coast northwards concentrate to cross an arm of the sea between Breskens and Vlissingen (Flushing).

I started later than I wanted, and almost gave up when I realised it would be 0830 when I actually got to Breskens, but I was blessed with fog, which effectively delayed the dawn by two hours. And, my goodness, was the trip worth it. One of those days that seems satisfying at the time, but when you come to write it up later takes on some of the aspects of legend. It started with warblers; Chiffchaffs, of course, and a Blackcap in the trees below the sea wall. But that was definitely a Nightingale (Luscinia megarhynchos) singing. And what about the varied song containing imitation of a Starling (Sturnus vulgaris)? An Icterine Warbler (Hippolais icterina), out and proud at the top of a tree, showing off his great orange gape. And next to him, a different, softer, sweeter song? Garden Warbler. And on top of the ridge, fluttering up and parachuting down? Common Whitethroat (Sylvia communis). A Golden Oriole (Oriolus oriolus) arched between two trees. A Cuckoo (Cuculus canorus) called in the distance. Overhead hundreds, probably thousands of Swallows, with a few of my first House Martins (Delichon urbicum) of the year. And over the sea terns - Common Terns (Sterna hirundo), of course, but with a few Arctic Terns (Sterna paradisaea) and even two Gull-billed Terns (Gelocheldon nilotica), rowing their way up the coast. My first for the Western Palearctic, these last, as I've only previously seen them in Africa. Then Spoonbills (Platalea leucorodia) overhead and couple of Golden Plovers (Pluvialis apricaria). A Hobby (Falco subbuteo) came and dashed around the Swallows before moving on, and a Marsh Harrier (Circus aeruginosus) beat his way northward out to sea. I left at 1130, ending the day with two Mediterranean Gulls (Larus malanocephalus) calling overhead, and, when I totted things up after I got home, I realised I'd seen and/or heard 69 species. That's no small number for this part of the world.

And another pleasure - there were other birders there; a small group from Tournai in Belgium, led by a fantastically knowledgeable chap called Jacques-Andre Leclercq, who's an expert on seabird migration. My birding tends to be solitary, and a lot of the time I like that. But part of the joy of birding is marking the passage of time, which is basically what this post is about. And to make the passage of time meaningful it needs to consist not only of personal, but also of shared experience. It's a point that one of my literary and birding heroes, Simon Barnes, makes repeatedly in his books and Blog on birding. So, though we didn't exchange numbers or anything, I've tracked Jacques down and hope we can occasionally coordinate our birding trips. I'm also hoping he can answer my question about how to access the port of Zeebrugge in the winter, which is, after all, only six months away now.

Seychelles - last days. The vanishing point

My first two days on the Seychelles had proven so successful that there was only one endemic species I needed to see to complete my "not on Mahe" set before heading back there, and so, on day three, I headed over to La Digue.

Even against the dizzying standards of rarity set by birds I'd seen over the previous two days, the Seychelles Paradise Flycatcher (Terpsiphone corvina) sits in a league of its own. It is, apparently naturally, restricted to the two islands of La Digue and Marianne, and has been introduced, as an insurance policy, also to the island of Denis. The two first-mentioned islands have a combined surface area of 11.27 square kilometres, which sounds pretty comfortable set against the range of the Seychelles Warbler (Acrocephalus seychellensis). But, remarkably, the Paradise Flycatcher is so picky that it is largely restricted to lowland habitats on the islands on which it occurs, and that is a considerably smaller area. In fact the Paradise Flycatcher is the first of the birds I'd attempted to see on the Seychelles that is classified by Birdlife International as Critically Endangered. It's a bird that is at the vanishing point in terms of its global survival. No wonder they've transferred a few to Denis, because the only protected area it enjoys on La Digue is the tiny Veuve Reserve - a place so small that it's barely larger than an overgrown English village green.

A view of La Digue from the sea. Almost the entire global range of the Seychelles Paradise Flycatcher is visible in this picture, in the tiny area between the sea and the fringing hills.

My ferry from Praslin took around 15 minutes, and I was immediately impressed by La Digue. There are barely any cars or lorries here; only what's strictly necessary for deliveries. All other travel is by bike or on foot, and overwhelmingly the former. I think people thought I was crazy for walking, but you can't use binoculars from a bike. I've tried. It's a bad idea.

I'd already added a year tick and a new subspecies before even getting off the ferry; a Green-backed Heron (Butorides striatus) of the degens subspecies limited to the inner islands of the Seychelles, showing a lot more rufous and chestnut than you'd see in Africa. But walking along the baking streets there was nothing out of the ordinary - Common Mynas (Acridotheres tristis) everywhere, an occasional Seychelles Sunbird (Nectarinia dussumieri) flitting between trees, quite a few Seychelles Bulbuls (Hypsipetes crassirostris) scattered around in family groups, Zebra Doves (Geopelia striata) crooning all over the place, and Fairy Terns (Gygis alba) overhead. So it continued as I got to the edge of the Veuve reserve, and so it continued, to my mounting consternation, as I walked into the "forest" (it seems a grand word for so small an area). A Madagascar Turtle Dove (Nesoenas picturatus) wandered along the path, and the trees were full of Seychelles Fruit Bats (Pteropus seychellensis).

But where was my widow? The Seychelles Paradise Flycatcher is known as a the "widow" (vev, in Creole, veuve, in French, hence the name of the reserve). It is so-called because of the jet back plumage of the adult, alleviated only by a pair of electric blue glasses in the form of a loral stripe and half eye ring, setting off the pale bill. But it's a misnomer, because it's the adult male that sports these colours, not the female. The female, as I was about to see, is much like her counterpart in mainland Africa - a black hood, a chestnut mantle an tail and a white underside. She fluttered into sight on hanging vines a few metres away. I got my views, but my camera was in my bag and she'd scarpered by the time I had it out.

I wandered on. In this case global scarcity and local scarcity did seem to equate. It was another 15 minutes before I saw my next bird and both it and the one after it (my last) were males. And stunning. Since a picture is worth a thousand words, here he is, and I'll say no more.

The male Seychelles Paradise Flycatcher. By far and away the rarest bird I've ever seen.

I was affected by this bird's rarity in ways I wasn't affected by other species I saw here. We could really be on the way to losing this gorgeous creature from the planet - or having it as little more than a precarious zoo exhibit on the tiny island of Denis. La Digue is developing quickly, and flat land good for building is not in great supply. The Veuve Reserve may survive, but it's pitifully small - even smaller than those tiny islands that host the last remnants of much of the rest of the Seychelles' avifauna. It's clearly insufficient to provide a meaningful refuge to an entire species. And, as for providing an 'ark' on Denis, who knows if this species can even thrive in the long term when transferred to other islands? The lesson of the Seychelles Magpie-Robin (Copsychus seychellarum) on Aride is that these islands, despite their similarities, are not much of a muchness ecologically-speaking. Birds survive on one where they wither on others, and the reasons are often obscure. If the Seychelles Paradise Flycatcher is to survive it can only be on its remaining native habitat - the almost absurdly small lowland forest of La Digue Island.

Wandering back to the ferry my thoughts were lifted from the infinitesimally small to the vast - to birds that span the globe on fat reserves that would fit into a teaspoon. The first delight was a small flock of Lesser Crested Terns (Thalasseus bengalensis), to add to the Greater (Thallaseus bergii) I'd seen the previous day. But this was as nothing to the sound of a sudden "tseep" that drew my attention to a fine, healthy and active Tree Pipit (Anthus trivialis), strutting around like it hadn't a care in the world as it pecked away behind a beach a thousand kilometres from anywhere, and 10,000 from its breeding grounds. These birds astonish me. I've seen them passing through the Balkans in vast numbers - the passage migration we see in North-Western Europe is a pale imitation of the urgent, almost frenzied press you see further South. And now, here one was, "an annual visitor" as the book says, and preparing, presumably, to launch itself across the Indian Ocean while its local cousins here won't cross a stretch of water wider than 2 kilometres.

I called it a day after returning to Praslin, and read a book instead. But on the Sunday morning I roused myself for a last effort. The Lemuria Golf Club, on the Western tip of Praslin, is a manicured environment, of course. But it has water hazards, and those harbour Yellow Bitterns (Ixobrychus sinensis). This is not an island endemic, but an outlying and beleaguered population of a species which is otherwise Asian, rather than African, in its distribution, as the taxonomic name indicates. And it's therefore living proof that the population of islands by birds is as much a matter of chance than anything else. Why Yellow Bittern and not Little Bittern (Ixobrychus minutus)? Golf courses are generally good for birding, in my experience, though it's probably unfashionable to say so. And in addition to the Yellow Bittern I was also secretly hoping that the greens and fairways would play host to one of my bogey-birds. A species I've sought and missed across two continents: Pacific Golden Plover (Pluvialis fulva).

It was a hot walk, but I'd phoned ahead and there was no problem getting permission to walk around the course. Moorhens (Gallinula chloropus) abounded (again) and there were waders too; Grey Plovers (Pluvialis squatarola) and Turnstones (Arenaria interpres) in good numbers, and the year's first Common Sandpipers (Actitis hypoleucos) and Curlew Sandpipers (Calidris feruginea). There was a juvenile Green-backed Heron too. But no Yellow Heron.

An orientalis Moorhen at the Lemuria Golf Club. This photo doesn't show it to best advantage, but the frontal shield is noticeably bigger than on European birds.

I returned to the clubhouse for a coke to recover from the heat and wondered what to do. The second nine holes were uphill, and seemed poor habitat for the species I was after. And I wasn't sure I could handle the heat. So I wandered back along the first nine, concentrating on the water edges as I did so. With a sudden flap a Black-crowned Night Heron (Nycticorax nycticorax) exploded from one of the stream edges, followed by a smaller, much paler bird behind. These Night Herons are recent immigrants, having naturally colonised the islands in the course of the 1990s, and this was my first of the year, so I was happy enough. But I was sure that the other bird was an Ixobrychus. I backed up and around, approaching the same stream from the other side, and there it was. An immature Yellow Heron. Nice. And nice that it was an immature, indicating that they're still breeding here. No Pacific Golden Plovers, though. For those I'll have to continue waiting, and working.

My last LIFER on the Seychelles. An immature Yellow Bittern on the Lemuria Golf Course.

I headed back to Mahe that afternoon, and I should now be writing about the adventures of tracking down the Seychelles Scops-Owl (Otus insularis) and the Seychelles White-Eye (Zosterops modestus) there, to complete the royal flush of Seychelles endemics. But the truth is that I had work to do, and the weather changed, and I was tired, and I ended up spending three nights and days in and around my hotel with little to show for it except my work output and good views (at last) of the Seychelles Blue Pigeon (Alectroenas pulcherrimus). The chances are that I'll never be back to the Seychelles, but if I do come back I'll put the effort in for these two last endemics. Or at least one of them. I have such a dreadful record in seeing owls that I'd already written-off my chances of seeing that bird before I even got there.

Seychelles - Day 2: The High - Praslin and Aride

One of the advantages of being kept waiting at the airport the previous day (see last post) was that I'd had time to arrange today's activity - a visit to Aride Island. Without revealing too much, it didn't come cheap, but on the other hand, having come all this way, was I really going to miss such a visit for the sake of a few tens of Euros? No.

Aride from a distance

I was picked up from my hotel and boarded the boat from a nearby beach before we tooled-out through the bordering reef, passing Cousin Island and slowing for our passage past Booby Island before approaching Aride. There were seabirds, of course; the Fairy Terns (Gygis alba), Lesser Noddys (Anous tenuirostris) and Bridled Terns (Onychoprion anaethetus) of yesterday, but also my first LIFER of the day - a bedraggled Tropical Shearwater (Puffinus bailloni), barely able to fly. My boatman, Georgie, who had previously worked on Aride, told me that this was due to the seeds of the Pisonia tree sticking to its feathers, and indeed when we got to the island one of the passtimes while we walked was removing these incredibly sticky seedheads from the feathers of affected birds. But the tree is native, and the period of seeding is short, so this is merely another of the many annual hazards the birds must face as they come to breed here.

Aride - the close approach, waiting for the dinghy to pick us up.

To get onto Aride you have to be met by a boat that picks you up from your own transport (no close approaches or landings are allowed for fear of introducing rats). It's a little dinghy and it hurtles out from the beach, and hurtles back in again with you on it, not letting-up speed until you run aground. Whilst exciting this was not much of a challenge when I visited, because the sea was pretty calm, but I'm told it's quite an exercise during the South-East Monsoon later in the year, when access is often impossible for days on end (a shame, for the birder, because it's the main breeding season for the seabirds). In any case it's worth it, because you come here to see some of the rarest birds in the world.

Aride is one of five islands managed by the Island Conservation Society - a fantastic organisation that has almost single-handedly saved several of the Seychelles' endemic bird species from extinction. They have volunteer programmes, by the way, if anyone is interested. In any case on Aride they have a small research station and about 8 staff, part of whose job, on the weekdays when people visit, is to show them around. I was lucky enough to be shown around by Melinda, a softly-spoken and passionate conversation expert from, of all places, Portsmouth (the one in the UK).

The smallness of the range of some of the bird species endemic to the Seychelles is a bit mind-boggling. The total land area of the inner islands (the so-called "granitics") is only 272 square kilometres. That's considerably smaller than the smallest British county, Rutland, which has an area of 382 square kilometres. All of Seychelles' endemic species are crammed into this tiny area, but even that doesn't do them justice, because only a few of them are found on all of the inner islands. Some, such as the Seychelles Scops-Owl (Otus insularis), long considered extinct until its rediscovery in 1959, are restricted to single islands, in this case Mahe, and are not generally distributed even there.

Others, such as the three main species I was looking for on Aride, were in the past more widely distributed, but have been forced back to tiny strongholds by the inroads of rats and other ecological pressures. The species in question are the Seychelles Fody (Foudia seychellarum), the famous and iconic Seychelles Magpie-Robin (Copsychus seychellarum), and the Seychelles Warbler (Acrocephalus seychellensis). If my rough calculations are correct, the entire global distribution of these species is approximately as follows: 14.76 square kilometres, 4.86 square kilometres, and 2.66 square kilometres, respectively. To put this in perspective, you could comfortably fit the global range of the Seychelles Warbler into Central Park, New York, and it's roughly the same size as the combined areas of Hyde Park and Kensington Palace Gardens. That's pretty small.

But as I quickly discovered, global scarcity doesn't necessarily equate to local scarcity. The first bird I saw on the island was the frankly rather dull Seychelles Fody, which was abundant around the research station and readily perched within a few of metres as we sat waiting for the various visitor groups to assemble. Meanwhile over the sea I had my first Brown Noddys (Anous stolidus), which had recently started to arrive in low numbers for the breeding season.

A Seychelles Fody near the research station. This one showing a bit of the yellow that the males show in the breeding season. For the most part, though, they were pretty brown and dull.

One big surprise around the research station was the Moorhens (Gallinula chloropus). Moorhens, for God's sake?! They are a different subspecies here (G.c. orientalis), but still. Overhead was more like it - Great Frigatebirds (Fregata minor) in the thermals, and White-tailed Tropicbirds (Phaethon lepturus) and Fairy Terns gliding a perfect white against the perfect blue of the sky. And then there were the Lesser Noddys in the trees, which took some getting used to. On the non-avian side the ground was alive with lizards - Melinda told me that there are more reptiles per unit area on the Seychelles than anywhere else in the world, and I can well believe it. The main ones are two species of Skink - Seychelles and Wright's (Mabuya seychellensis and Mabuya wrightii) - but we saw a fine Bronze Gecko (Ailuronyx seychellensis) later as well.

Aride - the forest habitat, and just an atmospheric photo.

As we walked, you had to start getting your eye in. Many of the seabirds, nesting willy-nilly on the ground (White-tailed Tropicbirds), in shallow holes (Tropical Shearwaters), or in trees (Lesser Noddys and Fairy Terns) were surprisingly difficult to see at first and the Fairy Terns in particular seemed to blend into the background colour, taking on the green of the forest light.

White-tailed Tropicbird on its nest

Soon, though, came my second endemic - the Seychelles Warbler, advertising his presence with a pleasantly familiar-sounding Acrocephalus tuneful rattle. A big bird, by warbler standards, and with a fine long bill too. See for yourself.

Seychelles Warbler

We trudged up, passing the carcasses of huge dead millipedes on the path, and finding Shearwaters covered in Pisonia seeds here and there. I glanced up to see a falcon mobbed by Fairy Terns. A Seychelles Kestrel (Falco araeus)? No, this was long-winged with a black trailing-edge to the wing. What, then? I asked Melinda. It's apparently been around for around three months and was identified by Adrian Skerrett (of Birds of Seychelles fame) from a photo; Amur Falcon (Falco amurensis). A real surprise, and a LIFER for me.

A little higher and my first, brief glimpse of one of the "commoner" Seychelles natives - the Blue Pigeon (Alectroenas pulcherrimus). But by now it was midday and we still hadn't seen the last of the Aride specialities. The Seychelles Magpie-Robin was introduced from another small island a few years ago to spread the population and increase range size. But the Magpie-Robin has not thrived on Aride. There are only 12 birds left on the island. Not 12 pairs - 12 birds. Nobody really knows why they're not getting on here, but Melinda's theory is that it could have something to do with the absence of tortoises, since there's nothing to stir up the leaf-litter for them. And suddenly, there they were. Two of them. Unlike all the other native species I'd seen here, the Magpie-Robin is the only one to show that lack of fear of humans that island species are famous for. They were happy to flit around within a metre or two of us, and are beautiful, to be sure. We eventually saw half the island's population of this bird - six, in total, all in predictable fixed territories. But I wonder how much longer this can last. They're not doing well and 12 birds is a pitifully small population even by the rarefied standards of island endemics. The future of this bird as a species may be assured, thanks to the Island Conservation Society. But its future on Aride looks fairly bleak.

Seychelles Magpie-Robin - one of the twelve

After a brisk lunch I left Aride, loaded with dreadful photos, fantastic memories, three T-shirts (proceeds to the ICS) and a lot of sweat. But my day wasn't over. After a pit-stop at the hotel on Praslin I headed up to the famous Vallee de Mai reserve in the centre of the island. It's an odd place. A palm forest, with a proper primordial feel, and it's home to another of those astonishingly restricted species, the Seychelles Black Parrot (Coracopsis barklyi).

The Vallee de Mai itself is actually rather small, but it's surrounded by a larger buffer reserve, so the total area of protected forest on Praslin is fairly large in comparison to the size of the island. One of the main roads runs through it, but that's less of a problem for birds than it would be for mammals, and, besides, with a total island population of only around 7000, plus visitors, it's not the busiest of thoroughfares.

The weird forest of the Vallee de Mai reserve.

I elected to take the circular path within the reserve, which the laconic ticket inspector had told me would take around 2 hours to walk. She must have been a slow walker. It took me 45 minutes, including stops. The forest is impressive, but it's also overwhelmingly quiet. I didn't have the impression of a place dripping with birds, and began to worry. I needn't have done.

Within 10 minutes I had my first endemic. A family group of Seychelles Bulbul (Hypsipetes crassirostris); much bigger than Bulbuls in Africa, about the size of a Jackdaw (Corvus monedula), in fact, and with a song that at times was very reminiscent of a Great Reed Warbler (Acrocephalus arundinaceus).

Seychelles Bulbul

But still no parrot. I walked on in the sepulchral silence, but then - falling fruit, and whistles. These surely must be Black Parrots. And, yes, there they were. Again, a small family group, but very difficult to get good views of. I whistled until my lips cracked, and managed to get one bird into a position to photograph. I had expected this bird to look a bit more prehistoric, but it was, in truth, a fairly standard-looking, if rather colourless, parrot. But its behaviour was interesting. It was much more like a pigeon than a parrot in its movements, and if I hadn't been looking for it I honestly wonder if I would have noticed it much at all.

Seychelles Black Parrot

I decided to walk back to the hotel from the Vallee de Mai. A brisk 35 minutes that produced another LIFER in a single Seychelles Swiftlet (Aerodramus elaphrus) overhead, and three nice year ticks on the beach; Greater and Lesser Sandplovers (Charadrius leschenaultii and Charadrius mongolus) next to each other, with a Great Crested Tern behind them (Thalasseus bergii).

The Greater Sandplover in the foreground, with the Lesser out of focus to the left.

Even the Seychelles Sunbird (Nectarinia dussumieri) obliged in the end, with this female posing for me on the hotel fountain as I got back, and there were Barking House Geckos (Hemidactylus frenatus) all over my balcony ceiling as I wrote up my notes over a beer an hour or two later. Altogether a very satisfying day.

A female Seychelles Sunbird.

Seychelles - Day 1: Mahe and Praslin

I told a lie in my post of yesterday. White-tailed Tropicbird (Phaeton lepturus) was not the first bird I saw in the Seychelles. That was a Zebra Dove (Geopelia striata), also known as a Barred Ground-Dove, an introduced species from South-East Asia, and a LIFER for me. I'd not put it on my target list because it's introduced, but there it was, looking a bit scraggy, to be honest, on the apron of the airport. I thought it would be rude not to count it. Along with Common Mynas (Acridotheres tristis) - a species I hadn't seen since I was in Sydney in the late 1990s - the Zebra Dove is the most noticeable of the birds of the Seychelles. Far more so than any of the native species. That's not a surprise - think House Sparrows (Passer domesticus) in New York or Rose-ringed Parakeets (Psittacula krameri) in Brussels - but it made me wonder if my endemics were going to be as easy as I'd hoped.

Zebra Dove - a poor photo taken later on the visit, and not at the airport, which doesn't have habitat like this, needless to say.

Added to this I was pretty tired by the time I got to Mahe. Even when you're on leave, international politics can intrude on your life. I'd been due in to Victoria at around 0830 after a night flight from Dubai, but after our plane had described four strangely pleasing loops over the Southern Coast of Oman, we had to turn back to Dubai before trying a much longer route out over the Indian Ocean to the Seychelles. The Saudis and their allies had that night started their bombing campaign in Yemen, and our intended flightpath over Socotra, within Yemeni airspace, didn't seem the wisest in those circumstances.

Our cat's-cradle tour of Southern Oman on the first, abortive attempt to reach the Seychelles

I've mentioned it in my previous post, but just to reiterate - the Seychelles are hot, and I had a bit of a wait at the airport before moving onwards. It was rather trying, honestly, sitting their and sweating over my luggage with the mountains of Mahe rising behind me no doubt full of Seychelles White-Eyes (Zosterops modestus) and Blue Pigeons (Alectroenas pulcherrimus). But the airport is pleasant - an airy structure with a plaque proudly stating that it was opened by "THE QUEEN", without further elaboration. Because there is only one, isn't there?

And, inevitably, the birds began to come, starting, as I can now reveal, with that Tropicbird - the first native species I saw. But the big surprise to a birder coming to the Seychelles is that the most noticeable flying creatures aren't birds at all - they're bats; huge Seychelles Fruit Bats (Pteropus seychellensis), to be precise, hanging in the air much like Black Kites (Milvus migrans) would in, say, Kenya.

But there were other birds too. My next LIFER was a Great Frigatebird (Fregata minor), which I'd somehow conflated with Magnificent Frigatebird (Fregata magnificens), a species I've seen before, and therefore, again, neglected to add to my target list.

But where were the endemics? And what was that insistent "kikikikiki" sound? Two small, brightly-coloured birds flew in under the rafters calling loudly to each other: Seychelles Kestrels (Falco araeus). They're really pretty small - probably half the size of their namesakes, and honestly much closer in size and colouration to the African Pygmy-Falcon (Polihierax semitorquatus), in my view. They clearly either nest, or roost, in the rafters here, so if this is the only bird you want to see in the Seychelles, you need go no further than the airport. I didn't take a photo. I was tired, and, besides, if I'd seen them within an hour of arriving, I was bound to see more later, right? Wrong. As it happened these were the only birds of this species I saw while in the Seychelles, though I gather that's pretty rotten luck.

At last the time came for my bus to the ferry, up the North-East coast of Mahe and through the suburbs of Victoria. On the way we flushed a few Cattle Egrets (Bubulcus ibis) of the local seychellarum subspecies, a first, of course. There was a Grey Heron (Ardea cinerea), of all things, in one of the mangrove creeks, and I glimpsed a Seychelles Sunbird (Nectarinia dussumieri) flitting between trees. As we arrived at the port a couple of Madagascar Turtle-Doves (Nesoenas picturatus) pottered around on the grass. Two more LIFERS.

Madagascar Turtle-Dove. This picture taken on Aride, meaning it could be the native subspecies,  N.p. rostratus.

The ferry terminal was crowded, but worth investigating. A couple of Turnstones (Arenaria interpres) on the pier and a winter-plumage Common Tern (Sterna hirundo) bobbing about over the water. The peerless nature writer, Carl Safina, in his unutterably magnificent The View from Lazy Point, uses Turnstones as a leitmotif for his discussion of migration, and its hazards, describing how they pitched-up everywhere on his travels around the world, from Belize to the Arctic, during the year in which the book was set. I'm beginning to think the same. As later days revealed, these Turnstones in Victoria weren't outliers, and I saw groups of twenty or more on Praslin and La Digue, so this is clearly on their migration route despite being 1000km out in the middle of the Indian Ocean. The more I see of migration, the more amazed I am.

Meanwhile a repeated "zreet" drew me to some bushes behind the terminal and a red bird with a black Zorro mask popped out to show off to me: Madagascar Red Fody (Foudia madagascariensis). Yet another LIFER.

The ferry between Mahe and Praslin moves at a fair clip. Around 30 knots, which is around 55kmh. It's not easy holding binoculars steady at this speed, to say nothing of the movement of the sea. And it means that the birds you see need to be viewed quickly before they pass by. But despite this the clear waters held a surprising number of birds, some of which allowed close views, and all of which were LIFERS, bar one species. That species was Wedge-tailed Shearwater (Ardenna pacificus), which I'd seen before in the Gulf of Aden (it's a long story), but the others were all new: Bridled Tern (Onychoprion anaethetus), Lesser Noddy (Anous tenuirostris) and Fairy Tern (Gygis alba). In an act of unspeakable literary vandalism, Birdlife International have now renamed that last species as "Common White Tern", which is about the least poetic description imaginable for this faultless porcelain figurine of a bird and which I point-blank refuse to use. And note the weasel-word "Common". Common where? In Belgium?

A Bridled Tern

My spirits were lifted from this grave reflection by the site of a pod of Dolphins - Indo-Pacific Bottlenose Dolphins (Tursiops aduncus), I was later told, breaching gently and showing some subtle spotting on the flanks. Wonderful.

By the time I reached Praslin I'd been on the road, with only about an hour's sleep, for 28 hours and was pretty much exhausted. My welcoming hotel did their best to take me through the features of my standard hotel room in painstaking detail, but I eventually managed to persuade them that all I wanted was to shower, get changed, have a beer, write up my notes, eat, and sleep - in that order. And that's what I did, rounding off a day that had produced 10 LIFERS on the bird side and two on the mammal side. A good start.

Clearly time to write up my notes and go to bed.

Paradise - Seychelles

You know those photos you see promoting tourism to the Seychelles? The perfect white coral sand beach? The azure and turquoise ocean beyond? The swaying coconut palms on the coast, and the verdant forest rising behind? The weirdly-weathered granite boulders strewn willy-nilly from seashore to mountain top? Well, let me tell you something. They're accurate. It really is like that.

See what I mean? The beach at Grand 'Anse on Praslin

The islands are almost preternaturally paradisiacal. The plants are thornless. Invertebrate life seems harmless. The sea is just the right side of warm to be refreshing. There are dogs, but they don't chase and don't bark. The driving is good. There is barely any litter. Food consists of varieties of curried fish. Perfection, it would seem.

It's bollocks, of course. The Seychelles have problems like everyone else. They're increasing in significance as a transshipment point for heroin. There's lots of dodgy money sloshing about. Crime is a problem on the main island, Mahé. But to the casual visitor, none of this is apparent. What you notice is the following. The islands are beautiful. They're a very long way from anywhere else. And it's hot.

The fact that the islands are beautiful is, alas, largely irrelevant to the birder, though it makes for a nice background to writing up your notes in the evening. But the other two points have important knock-on consequences for us. On the "far, far away" point, isolation equals endemism. The inner "granitic" islands of the Seychelles have twelve land bird species that are found nowhere else. There used to be fourteen, but two are extinct. There are also several endemic subspecies. It's also worth noting that unlike any islands of equivalent isolation, the Seychelles are continental in nature, being the last remnant of a drowned land that broke off from Africa at about the same time that Madagascar did. Still, oceanic isolation, whatever its origin, also means seabirds, and plenty of them. Millions breed on the islands of the Seychelles every year, including a good proportion on the "inners".

Birds over Booby Island, near Aride. The name seems a clue, but there are no Boobies on this Island.

But from a human perspective, isolation means something else; expense. Everything here is expensive - it goes without saying that importing things to a place as out of the way as this doesn't come cheap, so the baseline is bound to be quite high. But the consequence is that even if you take a self-catering apartment and never eat out, this will still not be a budget visit.

And then there's the heat. I can't exaggerate this. As I've said in previous posts I've birded in Equatorial East Africa, in Australia, in the Sahel and in the Amazon, but the heat here is as exhausting as anything I've experienced before. It's not that high - the low 30s celsius - but the humidity is intense. So here's a warning. You can bird here every day, but not all day. I managed about 2 or a maximum of 3 hours per half day. Much more than that and you're starting to run the risk of sunstroke. No joke. Lots of water. Coke at least once a day, and don't neglect the salt requirement when you eat.

To what I suspect will be my lasting wonderment, I had to go to the Seychelles for work. A conference, which started on the Monday and ended on the Wednesday before Easter. This was, I presumed then, and presume now, my only chance ever to visit the Seychelles, so I was determined to add a couple of days to these three to try and see at least most of the endemics. I had intended only the weekend - Saturday and Sunday - but it transpires that two of the most important birding locations (Aride and Cousin Islands) are only open on weekdays, which meant I had to come out on the Thursday in order to visit at least one of them on the Friday. Poor me, as I'm sure you're thinking.

Another bloody perfect day in paradise. This taken on Aride, but it could have been any of the islands.

Having said this, I'm convinced that two days is enough to cover all the islands except Mahé and I would have been happy with only that time. But bear in mind that visits to some of the outlying islands are dependent on the sea-state, so it's as well to have a flexible programme to allow for this, if possible. 

Next tip: buy Skelton and Disley's Birds of Seychelles. It may seem an extravagance for a visit of a few days, and with a limited number of species to see, but it contains invaluable advice on places to visit. And, more to the point, if we don't buy these books, people will stop writing and publishing them.

Final advice. If you want to have a chance of seeing all the endemics, you must visit at least four of the following islands: Mahé, Praslin (pronouned Prah-lin, as opposed to Praz-lin, as I discovered just in time), La Digue, Cousin, Cousine, Aride and Denis. Of these the first three are large islands with regular ferries. The last mentioned are usually visited by appointment, and sometimes are tricky even then (like Cousine which is an inconceivably luxurious resort but compensates for this by maintaining a small research and conservation programme, meaning it allows visits from birders, but  only if its not full of actual, paying guests).

I chose to base myself on Praslin for the days before the conference, and it was a good decision. On its own it has one species that no other island has - the Seychelles Parrot (Coracopsis barklyi) - and it's a good base for an easy visits to La Digue and either Cousin or Aride, or both. I had time for only one of those last two, and chose Aride, because it has more species, including more seabirds. It also, generally, has fewer people and you get to stay for longer. Good choice, as it turned out.

Once you get the hang of things its easy to use local buses or walk, rather than take the expensive taxis, though it's worth finding a driver you trust, just in case. On La Digue there are virtually no cars, so it's all by bike or foot. And on Aride, its shanks' pony only. But don't ignore my earlier comments on the heat. These are not leisurely strolls.

A distant view of Aride, with Booby Island in the foreground. Beautiful, but try walking up to the summit at midday.

So, how did it measure up? Well, I of course hoped to see all twelve endemics. In addition I had high hopes for around eight species of seabird that I'd not seen before. So, let's make the target species total 20. Well, without giving too much away now (I'll give a blow-by-blow account over the coming days) the outcome, in the end, was as follows: I saw 38 species, 35 of which were year ticks, and 22 of which were LIFERS. There's overlap in these figures, of course. But as to my target list: well, I got 10 of the available 12 endemics, and 6 of the seabirds I'd hoped to see. This is, far and away, the highest proportion of target species I've ever seen, anywhere in the world, and as you'll have noticed there were a couple of species that I saw that I hadn't included on my target list, or hadn't expected to see. The islands were, I found, surprisingly surprising.

So was it all worth it? Answer, in short, yes.

At last, a recognisable bird. This was, in fact, the first species I saw on the Seychelles: A White-tailed Tropicbird (Phaethon lepturus), and it's every bit as stunning as the islands themselves.