Autumn in June

Yesterday evening I walked out over the salt lake, its vast edges now a smooth surface dusted with salt crystals, in places it cracked under my feet like a freshly baked cake. A few rubbery plants still poked through here and there in remarkable defiance of the conditions. A few weeks ago the water would have been past my ankles here but the unrelenting heat and wind has drawn the lake backwards to a remarkable degree, a hundred metres or more, so far that birds disappear easily into an oily haze and counting them would be impossible any other way.

Under a glaring sun a few Black-winged stilts headed my way shrieking in alarm and way beyond them a rippling off-white smear over the lake marked the massed ranks of greater flamingos - one thousand three hundred and forty two of them I recorded a little while later.

That the water retreats so much is not surprising given the heat now, but I have also found that Akrotiri is one of the windiest places I have ever been. The peninsula, a thumb of land welded from sand, mud, shingle and sun-scorched rocks, seems barely an inconvenience to the Mediterranean and its prevailing winds pass across as if it were not there.

Other little changes have slowly revealed themselves. I first noticed it last week when those same winds materialised a common tern on the salt lake from somewhere, a bird far scarcer here than in North Western Europe. The same evening, a large roost of adult yellow-legged gulls appeared and set about causing consternation in the kentish plover colony. But yesterday a check on the kentish plovers in the gravel pits also sent a pair of green sandpipers noisily airbound. Unlike the plovers, their breeding range lies much further north so it seems these birds were already headed south – an indicator that migration has started again and the avian calendar has already turned a new leaf in its seasonal spread.

Spotted

(But I nearly missed it)

In fact, were it not for the sudden darting movement from an upper branch of the pine tree I would've carried on past. Instead, I glanced up in time to see a Spotted Flycatcher picking its way down the tree, branch to branch as if it were descending a ladder. In the late-afternoon gloom of the forest, a spiky monochrome canopy against the sky above, it paused before sallying to an adjacent tree. Following its direction I realised it had alighted at a nest, a small, bushy cup bound with lichens and strands of webs fixed to the side of the trunk. The bold location for something seemingly fragile was a surprise, on a better day it would be just feet above oblivious picnic-ers on the tables below. It would certainly be a treat for any passing Jay or suchlike. But maybe it's a case of hidden in plain sight?

A female was sat snugly on top, a shifting blend of streaked grey or brown that suitably matched the surroundings but so far from plain as to be rather beautiful. The male tended to her as several blind, beaky tufts peeped up from beneath. I watched this little scene contentedly, the rest of the wood, the rest of the world, faded out for a few minutes.

I was reminded of this encounter at the weekend when I read in the news today that nearly 20% of bird species are considered to be at risk of extinction across the European Union. What a tragedy.

Karpasia

Audouins's gulls, Kleides Isles, Cyprus, 30/5/15

Whilst my main role in Cyprus has been to collect field data relating to breeding and migrating birds, I have also been working on a project of my own. This investigates the hypothesis that the further I actually I am from home, the more successful Arsenal are. After assessing two years of data now, the correlation is a positive one. On cup final day last year I was attempting to find phone reception on a hilltop in the Outer Hebrides when we finally wore Hull down. This year, c2400 miles to the South East, in another distant corner of Europe, I found myself counting cattle egrets on a lake somewhere on the outskirts of Famagusta as the players ran out at Wembley. The greater distance involved clearly worked in our favour as we won 4-0. There may be some other variables to consider but a spring trip to Mongolia next year might just see us win the league.

So despite kind efforts I missed the cup final again this year. Instead I settled for a cold Efes, a Turkish TV drama and the sound of cicadas as I headed into North Cyprus with a few others to conduct the annual count of seabirds on the remote Kleides Islands at the very tip of the Karpas peninsula - the ‘pan handle’ of Cyprus.

En route we checked an area of seasonal wetlands on the edge of Famagusta’s ugly sprawl to find the spectacular cattle egret colony in full swing. Emerging from the murky water, bare, skeletal tamarisks sagged under the weight of nests, their spiky, feathered contents spilling this way and that. I counted a good number of chicks, some mere balls of fluff buried under similarly fluffy siblings, others clambering awkwardly in pursuit of newly returned adults. I watched one feeding its young and winced at the eager pulling and smacking of their bills clamped against the adults'.

Reckless coastal developments render the road to the Karpas forgettable until it veers in land and the undulating Mediterranean landscape of farms and villages reappears. It was a relief to leave the coastal strip behind, the unappealing holiday villages, the empty shops and scruffy parking lots. It's hard to fathom the process, or lack of, that continues to result in places like this. Worse still are its infections into the Mesoaria plain, the sweeping arable 'basket' of the North...the sight of an abandoned shopping mall next to the shell of a 15-storey hotel, surrounded by fields of wheat, is the most ludicrous of all.

Karpasia

A Calandra Lark in flight, a wonderful bird

But further east, through Karpasia and past the last village, things improve. Pockets of wheat, fringed with the spiky purple heads of donkey thistles fill the narrow valleys, while small stone huts seemingly as old as the hills lie scattered between them. Old shepherd's huts I assumed, but in fact they were drying sheds for the tobacco that was once grown here. Over one such field we marvelled at the sight of six eleonora’s and two red-footed falcons dismantling insects on the wing.

The Kleides Isles are inhabited only by seabirds and inaccessible from the mainland so a fisherman kindly took us out in order to complete our surveys. Most important among these is the small breeding population of Audouin’s gulls (the most easterly in Europe?) and Mediterranean desmaresti shags. Both are typically outnumbered by Yellow-legged gulls and on our visit so it proved. Thankfully the audouins remained largely stationary as I checked numbers from the lurching boat. Aside from the gulls and shags we also spotted several little egrets, a peregrine and a flock of swifts wheeling around one of the many caves. The strangest sighting of all though was found on the very last rock, the most easterly tip of Cyprus...a roosting Spoonbill, perhaps contemplating the final leap across the sea to the wetlands of Turkey or beyond.

The end

Lesser Flamingo - a first for Cyprus?

Last Tuesday, Anders, Martin and myself went over to Northern Cyprus for a series of Calandra Lark surveys on the Mesaoria plain which went really well. Straight away the birds were lively, chasing over the expansive, simmering fields of wheat that reached the horizon in every direction, or displaying high in the sky, their rapid, buzzing song spilling down beneath them. The birds proved to have a good repertoire of mimicry which had me searching on occasion for goldfinches, bee-eaters and swallows before the true source revealed itself.

Every now and then a lumbering combine harvester or tractor disturbed the peace. At one point a small group of farmers waved me over, rightly confused as to why an Englishman with a notepad and binoculars was wondering around their fields on a Tuesday morning. My answer was met with some amusement (and even more confusion).

Mesaoria 

Following the surveys, we headed to Kouklia Lake on Martin’s suggestion for a break before heading home as it apparently still held a good amount of water. Getting there we found that to be very much the case and, as a result, a huge number of birds using this impressive oasis in an otherwise intensively farmed plain. Straight off we picked out dozens of herons and egrets, a spoonbill, two marsh harriers and ducks including garganey, ferruginous and (surprisingly for May?) a trio of gadwall. The surface was pocked with coots and little grebes, at the far end a flock of greater flamingo took to the air momentarily.

Moving around the lake to the other side we continued to find good numbers of birds with squacco herons, wood sandpipers and black-winged stilts conspicuous on the rushy edges. We each focused on counting different species, Anders counting stilts, some of which were in amongst the feet of the now-nearer flamingo flock. While doing this he turned to Martin and me and asked us to check out an odd flamingo with an ‘all black’ bill and a shorter neck. The bird was feeding separately from the flock but clearly had a much darker bill, appearing at our distance to be black or dark brown. Anders suggested it could be a Lesser Flamingo based on an illustration in the Collin's Guide - predominantly an African species rarely recorded in Europe. Aside from the bill though, which we agreed was unusual and unlike Greater Flamingo, it was hard to gauge much else at this point and there were no other flamingos in the same view for close comparison.

However, soon the bird moved back to the flock and straight away we noticed the size difference – it was significantly smaller than the greater flamingos by a third or more! At this point I think burst out laughing as the differences became more apparent.

The bird then moved to the rear of the flock where it was easy to follow because of its size. It began preening during which point its legs were more clearly seen. These were darker in comparison with the other flamingos, like the bill, they appeared more reddish/brown than pink. After watching it for around 25 minutes, A and I felt confident it was a Lesser Flamingo which Martin pointed out would be a first record for Cyprus. None of us had ever seen this species before so photographs etc have been sent off for further study. It was a great spot by Anders and a good reminder that double checking 'common' or abundant birds can pay off.

Feel free to leave any comments below.

Lesser Flamingo (Phoenicopterus minor), Kouklia lake,  Cyprus, 12/5/15. Photo digiscoped (PB)
Bird is roughly in the centre of each photo (though slightly hidden in the second) Initially spotted by Anders Gray.

Eleonora's

Eleonora's Falcon, Akrotiri, April 2015

Whilst having lunch this afternoon I could hear bee-eaters calling outside the flat and went out for a look. A small flock soon drifted into view, high up in the sky. In their midst was a different shape, a long-winged falcon, black against the light, cruising effortlessly like a shark amongst a shoal of fish.

I see Eleonora's falcons daily here. They hawk the craggy coasts and scatter hirundines over the marshes - sometimes alone, sometimes in small groups. Often I see them at dusk over the village, a brief, sinister movement above the rooftops or the alleys between the houses and then nothing.

The bird in this photo had the feel of a migrant as it smashed its way northwards along the coast, on a journey from wintering grounds in Madagascar to the Mediterranean. But equally it could be a local breeder freshly returned to steep sea cliffs in the area to await summer's bounty of passerines. Whatever the case, they are special birds to watch and I am always delighted to see one.

A Change of Pace

Some things happen fast in the natural world, especially when observing bird migration at close quarters. In a few seemingly short weeks the scene in this hot, breezy corner of the Mediterranean has changed more than I might have imagined.

By my own experience, recent weeks have seen early April’s flurry of warblers depart and wheatears and flycatchers long gone on their journey’s north. The change is evident too in newly harvested fields and the ladders propped in orchards, in the creeping expanse of crystals on the edge of the salt lake. For many of the seasonal pools in the area it’s a case of here today, gone tomorrow as the days get hotter and longer.

Part of the joy of experiencing migration is learning the patterns it forms, of when birds arrive and depart. With these birds all but gone through, new species have appeared, heralding the start of May. In fact, for a spell last week, each day seemed to be marked by the presence of a different species around Akrotiri.

Despite strong winds, firstly it was a passage of red-footed falcons in the area, scything their way northwards, over Phassouri marsh and into the patchwork of citrus groves beyond. Last weekend it was cuckoos and golden orioles, a dozen or so of each, which suddenly appeared loitering on the margins of the village, the first attractive piece of habitat many spring migrants encounter. Perhaps best of all though was the passage of turtle doves early one morning. The sight was something I’ll never see in Britain now which made it all the more memorable, a fact underscored with the passing overhead of one bird in particular sporting shot-damaged primary feathers. Somehow this small event, this tattered feather, provided a vivid link in a vast chain often so difficult to comprehend. It provided a brief, passing history that made distant countries seem simultaneously close and very far away.

Cretzschmar's Bunting, an attractive and confiding breeding migrant frequently encountered in the hills

Lemesos Forest with the Troodos range in the background

The hills, valleys and plains are where much of the action is happening now as breeding birds firmly announce themselves. By Tuesday I noted black-headed buntings were back on breeding territories in the hills - bright yellow males rehearsing their sweet, fluid song amidst orderly vineyards now flickering with pale green leaves.

It’s the journeys into the hills to record resident and migrant breeding birds that I enjoy most of all. The slopes bristle with the machinegun scatter of sardinian warblers, the loud, repetitive loops of olivaceous warbler song and, in places, the dry, throaty rattles of cyprus warblers. Hiking along a trail in the week, in the midst of a dusty, scented forest of calabrian pine, endemic Cyprus coal tits added to this chorus. But most notable was the ever-present song of masked shrikes – an endearing an attempt at impersonating a warbler as a drunken uncle at a wedding disco.

Perhaps the most evocative sound of the season, one I look forward to so much at home, could be heard at dusk in the same valleys I crossed in the day. As the heat passed and the landscaped breathed again, dusk felt like squinting across a smoky room from whose midst the soft churring and odd yelps of nightjars could be heard – a song so intrinsically bound to early summer days.

Masked Shrike, Lemesos Forest, 28th April 2015

200 Collared Pratincoles whirling over my head

Lady's Mile beach, April 21st 2015