It was a grebe, but not as we typically know it, for it appeared different from the commonly occurring little grebe (dabchick) – one of which I had just glimpsed moments earlier by the edge of Monikie Reservoir.
So, I scrutinised this unusual bird out on the water more closely and was immediately struck by its piercing red eyes, and black and white contrasting plumage, with a broad, fluffed-up rear end.
A sigh of quiet satisfaction exhaled from deep within my chest, for this was a black-necked grebe, a scarce winter visitor to Scotland.
That’s what I like about nature, its constant ability to deliver surprises.
I watched it for a while as it dived under repeatedly in search for invertebrates and small fish.
A handful of black-necked grebes turn-up in Scotland each winter and are usually found in sheltered coastal areas, such as the Firth of Forth.
Nesting
In spring and summer, a small number – usually less than 15 pairs – nest on shallow nutrient-rich lochs in a few parts of the country, but these charming birds are on the north-western edge of their breeding range here in Scotland, and conditions are not ideal.
When a teenager, I recall watching black-necked grebes in the summer on Kilconquhar Loch near Elie, but I’m not sure if they still nest there, for they are fickle birds, often abandoning former breeding sites for no apparent reason.
The vibrancy of their breeding plumage, however, still lingers long in my mind with their black necks offset by wonderful golden-strawed feathers which fanned-out over the cheeks, and which were enhanced by the rich coppery tones of their slinky bodies.
For a young birdwatcher, they were marvellous to see, an elegant natural beauty that drew the breath away.
This black-necked grebe at Monikie, however, was still in its black and white winter garb, but there were subtle indications that its plumage was on the verge of miraculous transformation.
I moved on, continuing my circuit of the lower reservoir, and then onto the smaller upper reservoir.
Goldeneye ducks abounded and it was wonderful to glimpse several wigeon, too, with their delicate lilac breasts and deep chestnut heads catching the late winter sun.
Eyed by a robin
A moorhen, with its impossibly large feet, dabbled in the shallows, and a pair of greylag geese bobbed out on the water.
On reaching a stand of pines towards the end of my circuit, a robin eyed me curiously from a low branch, before swooping down to the ground to snatch a small worm, which it quickly gobbled before flying back up to its look-out perch.
There were many felled trees from recent storms, which made me wonder how this robin, and other birds and mammals, cope with the stresses of wild and windy nights when trees are tumbling all around.
The robin’s eyes were soft and yielding, but behind that benign appearance lay a creature with a thousand stories to tell of traumatic challenges where danger is all around and life can snuffed-out in an instance.
