Indigo Bunting, Ramsey Island

 After a hectic week, Saturday 19 October 1996 was shaping up to be quiet, except for the continuing presence of the Great Knot on Teesside. Having gone all the way to Marazion to year tick Spotted Crake in August, I found it ironic that one should turn up at Firepool in the middle of Taunton, about a mile from the office, and showing well. Afterwards I headed into Devon, aimless but for being within twitching distance of Cornwall. I’d finally decided what to do (go see a Ring-necked Duck at Beesands Ley) and was committed when the blow fell – immature male Indigo Bunting on Ramsey Island off west Wales, for its second day! It was always the fear when going towards Cornwall, and it came true. At least I saw the duck, which was only saved from being a serious contender for dullest rarity of year by it not being an official rarity any more. James and Paul, who were both at home, charged and got the bunting that evening (two of the eight ‘bumpstart birders’, as Birding World memorably put it, who did so). Alastair and I arrived at St Justinians lifeboat station at 2am in the pissing rain, hoping.

We managed not to be first in the queue because we didn’t get out into the pouring rain while it was still dark, but we were still fairly high up. We heard news that the bird was still present. Great! (But not unexpected given the overnight conditions.) Then disaster struck – the boatmen decided it was too rough to make the crossing! They would hang on in case conditions eased with the turn of the tide, but the earliest was going to be early afternoon, and there was absolutely no guarantee about that either. The next several hours were tedious – Alastair spent most of it in the car, eating my biscuits, while I stood out in the now intermittent rain (the weather had killed radio reception completely, so we couldn’t even listen to that). A self-dubbed lesson in ‘weather bollocks’ by Pete Fraser lightened a few hearts as we came to accept the increasing likelihood that we would not get on that day.

Suddenly, at about 1.30pm, David Jefferies from Bournemouth appeared, out of breath, at the top of the long set of steps up from the lifeboat station itself to tell us that they were thinking seriously of giving it a go at 2pm, as the wind and tide conditions had eased enough to get us on to the boats (the crossing itself was no problem apparently). We all queued on the steps, clearing out of the way rapidly when members of the lifeboat crew appeared, running down to answer a shout. Huge respect to them, and a fair bit too to the island boatman who dived into the sea and swam out to one of the boats to bring it in to the bottom of the steps. With some people having already given up and left, we got on to the second boat – the wooden one – and avoided being on the RIB, which we knew from the Myrtle Warbler twitch in 1994 was fun but wet. Landing on Ramsey is also fun, if a bit scary – standing on the slim gunwale of the boat (or the side of a soaking wet RIB), you had to grab the rope attached to the metal steps and wait for just the right moment near the crest of a swell to swing yourself across. Krypton Factor twitching!

After all the palaver of the day, it was a blessed relief to clap eyes on the bird in the little valley behind the warden’s cottage. Just a brief flight view first, but it soon settled and gave great views, perched on the gorse munching on craneflies. It was a little cracker – a soft brown body colour, but blue wings and tail, with blue also on breast and throat, hidden under the outer feathers unless the wind caught them.

A while later, having had our fill, Alastair and I had the luxury of deciding to leave while others were still running up from the quay – we could have stayed longer but thought it best to get off. Back at the lifeboat station we were met by a line of anxious faces, many of whom I knew, eager for news. Not sure whether knowing that it was showing virtually continuously at fairly close range raised or lowered their tension levels. Thankfully the weather held, the boatmen were brilliant, and everyone there that afternoon got over, saw the bird well, and got back. The journey home was horrible (heavy rain most of the way), but I didn’t mind. The only really worrying moment was the report of two white-rumped swift species (and a Red-rumped Swallow) flying round a church in Fife  – relief and laughter when they turned out to be two House Martins and a Swallow!

The recent Scilly bird didn’t hang around (or survive?) long enough to be twitchable by more than the swiftest movers, so another, easier opportunity would no doubt be widely welcomed.