James Ashworth
Before You Set Off: Tides, Wind and Timing
There is a particular quality of light on a cliff path in late spring — pale, wide and a little unforgiving — and it usually arrives with a wind that has travelled a long way to reach you. Coastal birdwatching rewards forward planning more than almost any other country pursuit, and most of that planning comes down to two things: the tide and the wind.
Tides matter because they move the birds. On a rising tide, waders scattered across a wide mudflat or sandy bay are pushed steadily towards the shore, concentrating into the last few hundred metres of exposed ground. That concentration is the spectacle. Aim to be in position roughly two hours before high water and stay for an hour after it turns. On a falling tide the same birds spread out again and become distant dots.
Wind decides what turns up. A steady onshore blow in autumn pushes seabirds close in; a hard offshore wind tends to empty the cliffs and leave you looking at nothing but water. A light south-westerly with a bit of cloud about is close to ideal. The sea breeze that builds through the middle of the day often lifts birds up over the headland in the afternoon, so an early start is not always essential.
Check a tide table before you leave the cottage, not while standing on the path. Phone signal on a cliff top is a lottery.
Reading the Cliffs and Choosing Your Route
Long-distance coastal paths are waymarked with an acorn symbol, but the best birdwatching stretches are rarely the most famous ones. Look for a section with three things close together: cliff-top grassland, a scrubby valley or combe cutting inland, and a rocky shore or estuary below. That combination gives you seabirds, scrub warblers and waders within a single hour's walk.
Stay well back from the edge. Grass overhangs look solid and are frequently hollow, and the cliff line changes after every winter. Where the path has been rerouted inland, take the hint — those diversions exist for good reason. If you are unsure, ask in the village shop or the harbour office about recent falls.
Walk into the wind on the way out and let it push you home. It is far more comfortable, and birds approached from downwind are less likely to flush early.
What You Will See Through the Glass
- Oystercatcher — noisy, pied, and the sound of almost every British estuary. Listen for the piercing pipe call.
- Curlew — the bubbling display call over the saltmarsh in spring is one of the great sounds of the coast. Long, curved bill.
- Ringed plover and dunlin — small waders running along the strandline, stopping abruptly, then running again.
- Turnstone — busy birds flipping seaweed and pebbles on rocky shores, often in mixed flocks.
- Fulmar — stiff-winged and stiff-necked, gliding along the cliff face. Nests on narrow ledges.
- Kittiwake — a small gull with black legs and a sharp, repeated call. Colonies on sheer rock are deafening.
- Guillemot and razorbill — rafts on the sea below the cliffs. Guillemots are brown, razorbills black with a thin white line across the bill.
- Gannet — large, white, dagger-billed. Watch for the plunge dive; it is unforgettable.
- Stonechat and rock pipit — the small residents of gorse and stone. Both sit up obligingly on fence posts.
- Peregrine and kestrel — hunt along the cliff line, often working the same stretch of air.
Kit That Earns Its Place in the Rucksack
A pair of 8x42 binoculars is the sweet spot for coastal work: light enough to carry all day, bright enough for grey mornings. Add a comfortable neck strap, because the supplied one will cut into you by the second mile, and a lens cloth for salt spray.
- Waterproof jacket and over-trousers — sea fret arrives fast and soaks everything.
- Boots with real grip for wet clay and loose shingle.
- Sun cream and a hat; cliff paths have almost no shade.
- A flask and something to eat, because the nearest café is often a long way inland.
- A small notebook and pencil for counts, times and anything unusual.
Leave the heavy telescope at home unless you know you will use it. A tripod on an exposed headland in a stiff breeze is a miserable experience, and most coastal birds come close enough for good binoculars.
Nesting Season: Give Them Room
From March to the end of July, cliff-top grassland is a nursery. Ringed plover, oystercatcher, skylark, meadow pipit and, on some shores, little tern nest on the ground. Eggs and chicks are superbly camouflaged and effectively invisible to a walker.
All wild birds, their nests and their eggs are protected by law in the UK, and several coastal species carry additional protection against disturbance. If a bird begins calling repeatedly, swoops at you, or trails a wing across the grass, you are already too close. Retreat the way you came and take a different line. Keep dogs on a short lead and out of the vegetation, and leave the drone at home — the noise clears a cliff of everything within a couple of hundred metres and can constitute an offence.
The Slower Rewards
The real pleasure of a coastal path is not the list of species but the hour you spend sitting still. Find a sheltered spot above a bay, get comfortable, and give it twenty minutes before you look at anything. Birds that scattered when you arrived will drift back. You will start to notice patterns: which way the waders move as the water rises, where the gulls roost, which ledge the fulmars prefer.
Walk the same stretch in different seasons. A path that is quiet in June can be extraordinary in September, when passage birds drop in overnight and the first divers appear offshore. Record what you see, even roughly — dates, tide state, weather. Over a year or two you will build a picture of your own patch that no guidebook can give you, and you will find that the walking, the counting and the waiting have quietly become the point.
