Denmarkfield Diaries: Birdwatching one morning in Autumn

Kestrel, image captured by local photographer Marcus Tyler.

With the unpredictability of current weather and the time warp that is January, hopefully it is easy enough to ignore the knowledge that it is not indeed one morning in Autumn and still enjoy these reflections, stumbled upon from 2024...

The shortening days of an encroaching winter certainly offers one benefit – Mike’s bird surveys commencing at a reasonable hour. A once 5am start in midsummer becomes 8am and that, I think, that I can do.  

Pretty much every Tuesday morning Mike, the longest serving volunteer at Rewilding Denmarkfield, undertakes a 4-5km walk around the 3 fields here, taking note and count of each bird sighted, before uploading these recordings to the British Trust for Ornithology database. In doing so, he provides rolling data for Denmarkfield which also feeds into the wider regional scope of the BTO on species numbers and distribution. Vital stuff. Yet what these weekly bird surveys provide on a more personal and experiential level is just as important.  

Tuesday 22^nd October is a soft morning, dry and clear but not too crisp, still dark when I pull my front door closed. I pause my walk to have a chat with a guy from down the road, as his jubilant spaniel runs circles around us, and the darkness seems to lift in those minutes we spend talking about Denmarkfield and our plans for the day. Streaky clouds are now hued with pink and there is a peacefulness in watching the morning stretch out and shake sleep from its limbs, and all the while last night’s moon gleams still high in the sky, watching on.  

Surreptitiously wiping the dust from my binoculars, we set off through the West Field. Hugging the railway line, it is the most heavily planted field of the three, with clusters of shrubs like blackthorn and holly, standalone trees like oak and aspen, and self-seeded silver birch bursting abundantly from the scrubby ground in between. Carrion crows, jackdaws, and woodpigeons make their first appearance of many, as the sky burns low and golden to the East. “It’s just magical I reckon, you just can’t explain it to someone unless they’ve been here and done it”, Mike says, and I know what he means – it feels like being inside a held breath on a morning such as this, nothing more on my mind than being able to work out how to actually focus these binoculars. And boy, when I cracked that there was real joy; a dunnock fluffing its feathers on a fence post, materialising out of the blurriness as if to say, ‘why has it taken you so long to pay attention?’.  

We pass by the scrape, an intermittent wetland that over past winter seasons has had snipe resting in its midst, flushed out at the last minute by footfall and an excited ‘Yippee’ from Mike. A few well-established young alders also like the dampness here, and they stand, dripping catkins, looking smug in their love of water just as I feel the cold wetness seeping into my boots. As we journey closer towards the Tay, the ground and sky are thick with autumn colour, the morning light filtering through branches already adorned bright yellow. I kick my way through the leaf litter and find some are young oaks, saplings and not leaves.  

There are periods where it is only the regulars reappearing, and we peer up at the white bands of the woodies’ underwings and try to decipher between a crow, jackdaw, rook, or raven, though we are interrupted every few steps by the blustering of a pheasant taking flight. In the quiet moments we listen out for those birds we cannot see, as we exchange musings, stories, and jokes that sometimes land heavier than said harassed pheasant on its squalling descent. And then a glimpse of something... a stonechat perched on a swaying stem, a couple of magpies seeing off a buzzard, a wren flitting amongst the grass, a mistle thrush atop a bare hawthorn. From the allotments arises one goldfinch, no wait ten, no that must be thirty coming to rest for mere moments at a time on thistles, knapweed, and ragwort, all gone to seed. It must be breakfast time for this golden-streaked charm and in commiseration, my belly rumbles. Hidden amongst them are the hard-to-spot odd-ones-out...a chaffinch maybe, or a yellowhammer, and today we have a reed bunting.  

I take Mike’s word for most of it for I am staunchly a beginner, quick to say “small and, um, brown?” if anyone were to ask me for an identification. But, by the time we conclude, Mike’s hopes for the return of migrating redwing not yet fulfilled, I feel more content with the weight of these binoculars around my neck, a touch less of the imposter in my stride. In times of grief or confusion or overwhelm, there can be incredible wonder in the seemingly simple act of turning a wee dial and bringing forth, with dazzling clarity, the image of a bird. These couple of hours provided, for me, a point of stillness and reflection – nature in focus, life close up. Before we call it a day – and it does feel like a full day has passed already, though a second cup of coffee is yet to be brewed – we see a buzzard again determinedly fended off, this time by crows. A hard life we say, smiles on our faces.  

If you would be interested in joining the bird walks at Denmarkfield, please send us an email: izzy@denmarkfield.co.uk