The Press and Journal (Aberdeen and Aberdeenshire)
MEET THE BIRDS THAT LIVE LIFE ON THE EDGE
Some hardy creatures still find sustenance on the winter beach – from great-crested grebes to turnstones and purple sandpipers
Astrong easterly wind whipped in from across the North Sea, piling a succession of white-spumed rollers that crashed relentlessly upon the mouth of the River Ugie estuary by Peterhead. This wild drama was both empowering and humbling – a telling reminder of the frightening power of nature and the fragility of life.
For waterfowl, there was good protection within the shallow basin of the estuary just upstream from the narrow footbridge that crosses the river, and a large flock of mallards bobbed contentedly within its sheltered confines, while a great-crested grebe roll-dived in its quest for small flounders and eels.
Down by the water edge, a trio of redshanks gently slumbered, with heads tucked underwing and one leg retracted into the warm embrace of the belly feathers to prevent heat loss.
Although resting, these enchanting waders were continually alert to the threat of danger, and every few seconds, their eyes briefly flickered open to maintain vigilance.
For a wader, the concept of a deep, prolonged sleep is an entirely alien one, and survival on an exposed shore is only possible with constant awareness for threats such as a marauding peregrine falcon or the bounding approach of a dog.
A rotting bank of seaweed on the upper shore had attracted a group of starlings, searching for the small invertebrates that thrived within its warm, decaying hold.
Nearby, several turnstones probed the high-water mark for small creatures. Turnstones are winter visitors from Arctic Canada and Greenland, and are full of frenetic activity as they flip over small stones and fronds of seaweed in search of food.
A small group of dunlins wheeled over the turnstones before alighting on the shore. I brought them into focus through my binoculars. Much smaller than a turnstone or redshank, these diminutive waders sport wonderfully subtle beige plumage and a stout, gently curved bill.
Another solitary wader caught my eye – it was behaving differently from the others, running on fast-pattering feet by a cluster of rocks, stopping only momentarily to snap up a tiny worm or other invertebrate.
It was a purple sandpiper, and not nearly as common a winter shore visitor as the turnstone, redshank or dunlin.
Purple sandpipers breed in Norway, although some of our wintering population may come from as far afield as Canada. They specialise in foraging by the surge on rocky shores, taking advantage of small creatures that are dislodged by the motion of the sea.
They flutter up into a brief hover when a wave hits, before quickly alighting again to see what titbits have been exposed.
Thomas Coward, the renowned 20th-Century ornithologist, noted: “Surf on the rocks does not disconcert the purple sandpiper; at the right moment it runs like a mouse to drier rock, or leaps into the air and hovers until the breaking wave retreats.”
These are birds that live on the edge, using their supreme agility and the power of the waves to seek sustenance during the dark days of winter.