Late December delivered one final twist to an already astonishing year. Images began circulating on social media of a striking bird that had been present in a private garden for over a week, unseen by the wider birding community. When the photographs finally emerged, there was little doubt about its identity: a Blue Rock Thrush.
The usual chain reaction followed—phone calls, messages, lifts hastily arranged—and by the following morning, we were on site. On arrival, the bird was initially perched quietly in a tree within the private garden before dropping down to feed on the ground. It then flew up onto a chimney pot, where it showed superbly, offering prolonged and close views. A truly cracking bird.
Almost immediately, the discussion turned to the inevitable questions. Was it wild or an escapee? What about the timing? The drooping left wing? A supposed “gammy” foot? With good views, the feet looked fine; the wing was clearly damaged. But after the extraordinary autumn we had just experienced—one that rewrote the rulebook on what might turn up in Britain—nothing felt impossible anymore.
At some point, analysis becomes noise. I’ll leave the forensic debates to those who enjoy them and to the committees whose job it is to decide. For me, birding is about being out there, seeing birds, and enjoying moments like this. And judging by the smiles and cameras on show, plenty of birders felt the same—especially those who chose the field over the keyboard.
