‘That thrush just did something incredible’: tuning in to bird calls on a North York Moors walk

Baines, with over four decades of intimate exploration of this ancient landscape, quickly pointed out another surprise: despite the calendar still firmly rooted in winter, "ornithological spring" was already well underway. This concept, often overlooked by casual observers, highlights the subtle cues birds follow, driven by light cycles and internal biological clocks rather than human-defined seasons. "Birds are starting to sing," he explained, his voice a quiet counterpoint to the still morning. "Some, like the crossbill, might already have laid eggs." Crossbills, known for their distinctive crossed mandibles adapted for extracting seeds from conifer cones, are among the earliest breeders in the UK, sometimes nesting as early as January or February, taking advantage of abundant conifer seed crops. This early activity underscores the dynamic, year-round nature of avian life, often hidden from those who only look for overt signs of spring.

Our initial path led us up to an exposed ridge, where bird sounds were conspicuously absent. Baines, a master of reading the landscape for its wildlife, quickly pivoted, leading us down into a sheltered wooded valley. This move was strategic, as valleys often offer more protection from wind and cold, creating microclimates where birds are more active and their songs can travel more effectively. We had driven up from Pickering, a charming market town on the edge of the North York Moors National Park, to meet Baines in this landscape he has called his classroom for 40 years. His profound connection to the area, and his unique approach to observing its inhabitants, are chronicled in his recent memoir, The Rarity Garden, a title that hints at the treasures one can discover when looking beyond the obvious.

Baines’s journey into the world of birds began as a 14-year-old budding ornithologist. Like many enthusiasts, he initially sought visual confirmation of birds. However, he quickly encountered the frustration of woodland walks where birds were heard but rarely seen. "I had spent too many woodland walks being disappointed by not seeing any birds, but I could hear a great deal," he recounted. It was a pivotal realization: "When I started to prioritise sound above sight, the trees came alive and I have never had a bad woodland walk since." This epiphany transformed his entire approach, shifting his focus from the visual spectacle to the rich, intricate tapestry of sound that defines a vibrant ecosystem. Our walk today, he explained, aimed to impart that same transformative message to me, to teach me to truly listen.

As we descended into a wooded glade, the lesson began with a dramatic flourish. A large bird suddenly flitted out of the trees, a blur of motion, turning swiftly before vanishing. "Great start!" Baines exclaimed, his eyes alight. "Male goshawk." The goshawk (Accipiter gentilis), a powerful and elusive raptor, is a prized sighting for any birder. Known as the "phantom of the forest," its presence signifies a healthy, mature woodland ecosystem. Found in mature woodlands across the north of England, particularly in areas like the North York Moors, it’s a species that demands respect and often rewards patience, or in this case, quick reflexes and keen observation. The sheer speed and grace of the bird, coupled with Baines’s immediate identification, underscored the depth of his expertise and the hidden life thriving around us.

We paused before a small stand of alder and hazel, a common habitat for various woodland birds. A distinct song emanated from the canopy. Eager to test my own burgeoning birding skills, or rather, my technological aids, I retrieved my phone and launched Merlin, the AI-assisted birdsong identification app from Cornell University. "Yes, let’s see what you get," Baines said, a knowing twinkle in his eye. Merlin, which has revolutionized bird identification for millions worldwide since its introduction by Cornell Lab of Ornithology in 2014, uses advanced machine learning to analyze audio recordings and identify species in real-time. It’s a tool that has empowered casual birders and seasoned experts alike, offering a window into the complex soundscape around us.

As I glanced at the screen, three bird names quickly "pinged" into view: Song Thrush, Chaffinch, and Blackbird. But something felt amiss. All the identified sounds seemed to be originating from the exact same spot in the alder tree. Then, an unmistakable, piercing mewling cry cut through the air, clearly emanating from the very top of the alder, where all the other sounds had originated. Merlin, catching up with the live acoustics, duly obliged with a new identification: "Buzzard."

Richard chuckled softly. "Any thoughts?" he prompted.

"That thrush just did something incredible," I ventured, a sense of wonder and confusion mingling in my voice.

We listened for a moment longer, allowing the implications to sink in, before Baines elaborated on the fascinating world of avian mimicry, a phenomenon that even cutting-edge AI like Merlin is still learning to navigate. The song thrush (Turdus philomelos) is a renowned mimic, capable of incorporating the calls and songs of other species into its own repertoire. While Merlin is an undeniably brilliant tool for learning birdsong, its reliance on pattern recognition can sometimes be outsmarted by the ingenuity of nature. "It’s a brilliant tool for learning birdsong, but it’s also revealing lots of unexpected information," Baines explained, highlighting the dual nature of technology in natural history – aiding discovery while also exposing the vastness of what we still don’t know.

One such moment of revelation occurred during a walk in May 2025. Baines was leading a group searching for nightjars in clear-felled areas of plantation woodland, not far from where we stood. A participant, lagging slightly behind, suddenly rushed back to the group, excitedly reporting that Merlin had detected a nightingale’s song. Nightingales (Luscinia megarhynchos) are celebrated for their powerful and beautiful vocalizations, but their distribution in the UK is largely confined to the south-east, rarely sighted north of Cambridgeshire, and certainly never recorded in the North York Moors. "It would have been momentous," Baines emphasized, explaining the extraordinary significance of such a discovery in this region. The group immediately turned back, full of anticipation. Instead, they found a song thrush.

"It may have learned the song on its spring migration, maybe even in the Mediterranean," Baines mused. Song thrushes are migratory birds, and during their journeys, particularly in their wintering grounds in southern Europe and North Africa, they are exposed to a diverse range of avian vocalizations. Their ability to imitate these sounds is a testament to their cognitive flexibility and the complex acoustic environment they inhabit. This incident, Baines noted, was a perfect example of how "Merlin is teaching a lot, but it’s also revealing gaps in our knowledge." It pushes ornithologists to consider the plasticity of bird song and the often-surprising ways in which species interact and learn from their environment.

The song thrush, it turned out, was not the only feathered trickster. As the valley floor flattened out, I spotted a great tit (Parus major) landing in the willows by the stream. Its subsequent song was unlike any great tit call I had ever heard. "It’s mimicking a marsh tit," Richard clarified, identifying the subtle differences that my ear, still in training, had missed. Marsh tits (Poecile palustris) have a distinct "pitchoo" call, and the great tit’s rendition was a surprisingly accurate, if unexpected, imitation. By the time I managed to get Merlin running again, a song thrush had resumed its performance. This time, with the sun fully risen, we could see the culprit clearly. Richard whispered, "It’s doing a nuthatch." Nuthatches (Sitta europaea) are known for their loud, ringing "dwip dwip dwip" calls.

Merlin, however, offered a truly bewildering identification: "Coot."

We both stared at the screen in disbelief, then replayed the recording. Sure enough, embedded within the thrush’s intricate melody was a snippet of low, guttural quacks. This time, even Richard, with his decades of experience, was genuinely staggered. "That is a first," he declared. "There definitely isn’t a coot within 10 miles of here." Coots (Fulica atra) are water birds, typically found on lakes, ponds, and slow-moving rivers. The idea of a woodland song thrush mimicking a coot, particularly so far from any aquatic habitat, was not just unusual; it was unprecedented.

Standing there, in a puddle of icy water, I had a sudden, profound realization: I may have just witnessed a small, undocumented addition to human knowledge. The unexpectedness of it, the sheer audacity of the thrush’s mimicry, was exhilarating. Significantly, not once during this astonishing auditory discovery had I felt the urge to take a photograph. The experience was entirely sensory, a testament to Baines’s initial challenge to my reliance on visual confirmation.

For Richard, these moments of pure, unadulterated auditory thrill are what make his walks so special. "Being thrilled by bird sound really frees people up," he said, "especially if you’ve got used to the idea that success is a good photograph." In a world increasingly dominated by visual media and the pursuit of the perfect shot, Baines’s philosophy offers a refreshing alternative, encouraging a deeper, more mindful engagement with nature. This approach also makes birdwatching more inclusive. He has brought people with sight loss on these walks, noting, "They are often much more sensitive to sound and so it’s fascinating to get their skills involved." Their heightened auditory perception often allows them to pick up nuances that sighted individuals might miss, enriching the experience for everyone and demonstrating the power of diverse perspectives in natural observation.

We continued our journey, and with Baines’s expert guidance, a whole new sonic world unfolded around me. Far away, almost imperceptibly at first, I began to discern the characteristic honking of pink-footed geese. These migratory birds, Anser brachyrhynchus, undertake an epic journey from their breeding grounds in Greenland, Iceland, and Svalbard to winter in the UK. They were so high in the sky they were invisible to the naked eye, but their calls were unmistakable. Richard, with his encyclopedic knowledge of local habitats and migratory patterns, thought he knew where they might land. We quickly transferred to the nearby flooded fields of Ryedale, a prime wintering ground for wildfowl.

The scene that greeted us was breathtaking. Extreme cold across eastern Europe had pushed thousands of geese westwards towards the relative warmth of the UK, creating an extraordinary spectacle. Hundreds of pink-footed geese descended from the sky, their honks now a cacophony as they came in to land. Among them, even more remarkably, were the black-barred chests of Russian white-fronted geese (Anser albifrons frontalis). These birds, originating from breeding grounds in Arctic Russia, typically migrate to the Netherlands and other parts of continental Europe. In a normal year, Yorkshire might welcome a mere couple of dozen of these rare visitors. Today, however, we were witnessing several hundred in one place. "A once in a 25-year event," Baines declared, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and professional excitement.

These birds had already flown approximately 3,000 miles from their Siberian breeding grounds to the Dutch coast. Their decision to undertake an additional few hundred miles across the North Sea to reach Yorkshire underscored the severity of the continental cold snap and the incredible resilience and navigational prowess of migratory birds. That, in itself, seemed like magic. But the story wasn’t over. The next day, Richard called, his voice still brimming with discovery. "I’ve been looking at the photos of those geese," he said, "and there was something even more unusual among them: another Siberian visitor, a single tundra bean goose." The tundra bean goose (Anser fabalis rossicus) is another rare winter visitor to the UK, typically found in very small numbers, if at all. Its identification, confirmed through photographic evidence after the fact, added another layer of extraordinary rarity to our day.

I liked that. Despite my newfound appreciation for the power of sound, and the profound experiences it unlocks, the camera still has its place. It serves as a tool for verification, for sharing, and for those rare moments when even the most seasoned expert needs a second look. Richard Baines had successfully opened my ears to a hidden world, demonstrating that the richest birding experiences often come not from what you see, but from what you hear. Yet, the journey of discovery, as the tundra bean goose proved, can still benefit from every available tool, blending the sensory with the scientific.

Yorkshire Coast Nature offers various immersive nature walks, including their acclaimed Bird Sound Safaris, providing unparalleled opportunities to connect with the natural world through sound, with prices starting from £40.