Linda Brown
Curlew? Or Snipe? Curlew, I think…
I’m on the path which skirts Prestwick Golf Club’s practice range, looking down the steep banking to the Pow Burn, trying to identify the wading bird skulking along the water’s edge and tweezing worms from the wet sand with its incredibly long and slender beak. Hands up – being a walker who normally explores and looks for wildlife on the rural roads and woodland in the Irvine Valley (East Ayrshire) – coastal wading birds are not my forte. Curlews, however, are hardly strangers to the ‘Valley’. I often hear their haunting, rising and falling ‘cur-leeee’ call from across the fields, especially in springtime. But the birds are canny and keep their distance, hiding in long grass, or soaring high overhead, so I never get a chance to view or photograph one up close. That said, I’m sure this bird is a curlew – its beak is slightly curved whereas, I believe, a snipe has a long straight bill. I whip out my phone to confirm my identification on the oracle that is Google Images. Yes… it is indeed a curlew. What would we do without technology?
Leaving the golf course behind, I keep to the well-used track which eventually leads to the mouth of the Pow Burn. Tall grasses, broom and bramble bushes line each side of the path. It’s a glorious morning, around nine o’clock-ish and already quite warm; the sun beams in a powder blue sky, cloudless, save for a few delicate wisps of cirrus. The ‘up with the labradoodle’ dog-walkers are out in force, trying to exercise their pooches before the temperature becomes unbearably high.
An enthusiastic Border Collie bounds towards me, tail wagging on overdrive. With a quizzical tilt of his head, he sniffs at the camera bag hanging by my side.
“No doggy treats in there, wee pal,” I tell him.
His owner is striding behind him. “Sorry,” he calls, “but Bob thinks everyone carries a snack especially for him.”
Realising no treat is forthcoming, Bob casts me a look of utter dejection then reluctantly trots off behind his owner.
Further along the path, the cheery melodic tones of a linnet stop me in my tracks. Spying him high on a branch of a tall hawthorn bush, I focus on him using my camera’s zoom lens. He’s such a stunning little bird, wearing his summer wardrobe of crimson hat (head patch) and matching crimson waistcoat (breast). Listening to his pleasing and uplifting song, I can appreciate how the old Scots expression ‘singing like a linty’ came about. But today, he has competition – a very vocal whitethroat is balanced on a narrow branch halfway up a nearby tree, warbling for all he is worth. Then I spot a stoater of a young stonechat, possibly not long fledged, clinging to thorny bramble briar. Wow, this area really is a great place for wildlife enthusiasts and photographers… and plane spotters.
Birdlife seems to thrive at the Pow Burn despite the steady stream of flights taking off from, and landing at, nearby Prestwick Airport. A white passenger plane with a bright orange logo soars easily (see what I did there?), and noisily, above me, heading westward. Moments later a scarlet two-seater light aircraft hums into view and I can almost see the whites of the pilot’s eyes as he begins his descent towards the runway.
I’m trudging onwards towards the estuary when I hear something usual – a loud high-pitched ticking noise. Sounds like a grasshopper? Or perhaps a cricket? But do we even have crickets in Ayrshire? (Turns out we do!) I stand still and try to pinpoint the location of the noise. It seems to be coming from a lone bush, surrounded by long grasses, nettles and thistles, about five metres off the path to my left. I pull out my phone again, and open my birding app – a clever software programme which listens to birdsong and calls then offers identification. More fantastic technology. Within seconds the app records the repetitive ticking sound and a result flashes on my phone screen. A grasshopper warbler. Amazing, I’ve never seen one before. Should I try and get to the bush? Not too close, though. I don’t want to disturb this uncommon little bird, but hopefully I could catch a glimpse of it and maybe even snap a photo.
Against my better judgement, I decide to forge a path through the thistles and nettles to get nearer to the bush. I mean, what is the worst that could happen? Of course, I can’t see my feet, and the ground beneath them is all humps, bumps and potholes. Using my walking pole as support, I lumber forwards. Still chirping, the grasshopper warbler is tempting me closer to the bush, like a siren luring a sailor to the rocks. I’m halfway there when my left foot stumbles down a hole, my ankle coggles and despite best efforts to stay upright, I keel over. Feels like I’m falling in slow motion. Someone shouts a swearword and I realise it’s me. I land, knees first, with a thud, flattening the jaggiest thistle in Ayrshire. Ouch.
Of course, I try to spring back to my feet as if I’d never fallen in the first place. Not easy when you’re the wrong side of sixty.
“Are you okay?” A woman walking a black labrador calls over. I think she’s trying not to laugh.
I give her a stoic wave. “I’m fine, thank you.”
Thankfully, apart from bruised pride, a probable bruised knee and thistle needles in my hands, there’s no real damage to me or my precious camera. However, the commotion has silenced the grasshopper warbler; he’s probably skedaddled to a quieter bush. So I hirple back to the path. And resolve to stay on it.
An hour later, I’m heading towards the soft play car park where my other half is picking me up. It’s been a grand morning; I’ve explored the beach at the mouth of the Pow Burn, photographed redshanks, yomped up and slithered down sand dunes. The only disappointment is missing out on seeing my first grasshopper warbler.
The promenade is heaving. Families with deckchairs, rugs and picnics already throng the beach. I stop to buy a cold drink at the soft play kiosk then head for a seat on a bench to wait for my lift to arrive. That’s when I see her… She’s standing nonchalantly on the sea wall, between weans slurping cones and grannies sipping takeaway coffees – honestly, the last place I’d expect to spot a northern wheatear. With her striking peach-flushed plumage, large dark eyes and white rump, she’ll make a bonny picture and she poses like a pro for my camera, unperturbed by the sunny Saturday seaside chaos around her. She’s made my day. She’s my first wheatear.
