Leaving the shrike to its own devices and with other admirers beginning to arrive, it was time to move on. Partly because hanging around absorbing kudos has never appealed, but mainly because - with birds continuing to arrive on the coast, and conditions looking good - it felt like there was no time to waste; and there's no better fuel for finding a rarity than just having done so.
Gravitating (and partially levitating) towards Carr Naze, I had one intention... it's easy to say in retrospect, but looking at the latest reports and considering my next move, I was fully focused on finding a rare wheatear. Of course I've done similar things a million times before and resolutely failed, but if there was ever a time when the odds were more in my favour, it was now.
The first clear views on the clifftop of Carr Naze
Along the southern edge of the plateau, scanning the slopes slowly and thoroughly, the best I could do was three Robins - three more than I'd seen on my last circuit there a couple of hours earlier, so a good sign of new arrivals. Looping round and slowly checking the northern side, I glanced to my left and saw a bird flying along the cliff, quickly disappearing below the edge - but not quickly enough to avoid giving the heart-stopping impression of what looked like a white rump....
Legging it through the umbellifers between me and where the bird disappeared, I approached the incline slowly, looked along the side of the slope - and immediately flushed what must be a wheatear, black-and-white flashing tail and all. A couple of seconds of blind panic (because of the topography and general disturbance, many promising birds disintegrate before your very eyes here) later, and thank the gods, it landed on the opposite cliff edge.
I laid down on the slope and fired off some record shots before getting mt first extended, slightly calmer views - rare wheatear, yes; Pied Wheatear, most likely. Jesus! At this exact second Paul (Tymon) walked past with a bigger, better lens (my camera has been at death's door for too long now), and I quickly waved him towards me, somewhat rudely instructing him to open metaphorical fire on the little gem perched nervously in front of us (which he did more than ably as these initial images show - thanks Paul, and also Chris for the below).
From there, more excellent views as it fed on the slope about twenty metres away, and more opportunity to get proper detail; by now, it was almost certainly Pied (but caution is never a bad thing in these situations and so it was put it out as probable), and within a couple of minutes, the crowd twitching the shrike had covered the all-of-two-minutes walk to the wheatear.
At least, to where the wheatear was - it'd disappeared behind us, somewhere around Carr Naze Pond (well, hopefully anyway - it could also have just carried on, like so many wheatears do in this area). Thankfully we quickly refound it, and it even hopped up on the nearest fence for the assembled crowd to enjoy, before making its way over to the far side of the field and getting into a brief disagreement with the local Stonechats.
For the rest of the day and the next, it hunkered down in increasingly strong winds and poor conditions, but then chose to return to Carr Naze and happily fed on the slopes for many more visitors to enjoy, usually at respectable distances, over subsequent days.
Two much prayed-for national rarities, dropping in within minutes, and metres, of each other; what a day. And with the Coues's Arctic Redpoll the day before, a hat-trick of BBRCs, the latter of which I found in the same spot on Carr Naze as the wheatear - which was also coincidentally the same spot I found an
Olive-backed Pipit in April 2012, a couple of weeks after moving to Filey - my first BBRC rare there; maybe that's where some mystical rarity leylines meet....?
The next two days (
5th and
6th), again spent dawn-to-dusking it at Filey, were enjoyable, without being quite as memorable - highlights included lots of Mealy Redpolls, a Siberian Chiffchaff, an Eastern Lesser Whitethroat, a few Twite, two Lapland Buntings and a scattering of other migrants (but no little leaf warblers, despite best, lengthy efforts).
With the benefit of a few day's hindsight (I'm typing up here in Scotland, where i'm guiding for the next couple of weeks), I'm even more appreciative of last week's adventures. One the one hand, almost inconceivably lucky, and doubtless unique in how it played out; but on the other, as the cliche goes, you make your own luck, by putting in the hard yards and staying stubbonly focused.
Water Rail, freshly arrived in Top Scrub
As a swings-and-roundabouts aside, autumn 2016 springs to mind (with plenty of coastal birders comparing that autumn with this for delivering exceptional eastern rarities and scarcities); I still vividly remember doggedly patrolling my Filey patch, hour after hour, day after day, week after week, and finding almost nothing (bar a couple of always wonderful Pallas's Warblers and a few other scarcities), while sparkling rarities rained down either side of me for what felt like months on end.
The Filey Church fish pointing east in early November!
This autumn? Far less opportunity and effort than those days of obsessive tunnel vision, and yet Filey repaid my faith, yet again, and then some. Eventually, even the worst of the ghosts get exorcised.
