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The corncrake

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As a kid, I remember my mum lamenting the fact that corncrake numbers had declined so much, it was unlikely we would ever hear their distinctive calls in the summer months again. Not that we had ever heard one, living in the south. Their populations had already dwindled to the outer reaches of the mainland and offshore islands. Like the swallow, the rasping call of this small visitor from Africa was once a welcome sign that summer had arrived in Ireland. Population numbers started falling at the start of the 20th century and it was estimated that there were only 893 calling males left in Ireland by 1978. In 1993, the corncrake conservation project was established, with a measure put in place to protect the remaining habitats and record the population numbers on an annual basis. That first year, only 189 calling males were recorded in Ireland. Numbers fluctuated between 1993 and 2018, partly owing to a decrease in the number of active corncrake sites. The last corncrake in the Moy Valley in Galway was recorded in 1998, and the Shannon Callows went quiet the early 2000s. Since the project started, however, numbers have increased by over 50% in West Connacht and the Donegal population has doubled in the same period. The highest numbers were recorded in 2014 with 230 calling males. The project is now run by the National Parks and Wildlife Services, who work with landowners to delay mowing on nesting sites. Donegal remains the stronghold for the species with 90 calling males and the offshore islands account for 53% of the national population.

Corncrake on Tory island in Donegal

In 2018, I travelled up to the northwest of Donegal to work on my island photography project. I had hoped I might see a corncrake as I would be roaming in the heart of its stronghold, although I knew chances were slim. My first port of call was Inishboffin island just off the coast at Magheraroarty in Donegal. I wandered along the road out of the old village, which meanders past long narrow fields filled with nettles, wildflowers and overgrowth. It was an incredibly hot day and the air was still. I sat for a while on the stone wall to take in the views. Suddenly, a loud rasping call boomed from beneath the nettles only a few metres in front of me. Like a natural amphitheatre, the stereo sound bounced off the stone wall boundaries. A second call reverberated back from the field on the other side of the road. I couldn’t believe it. It was the unmistakable ""crex crex' call of the corncrake. I sat absolutely still, only to follow the sound around the field with my eyes. The calls echoed back and forth for a few minutes but the undergrowth was too dense to catch a glimpse. A man quietly ambled up the road behind me and nodded his head to say hello. As still as a statue, I whispered back a hello. Thinking there was something wrong with me, he asked if I was ok. On hearing my excited explanation about hearing a corncrake for the first time, he laughed and said ""oh these fellas are always here, they're not going anywhere,”

Village on Inishboffin island in Donegal

A few days later while wandering along a path on Gola island, I heard that distinctive call again. One, two, possibly three individuals calling for the female’s attention. Again, I sat and listened. Before long, a trio of photographers arrived along the path carrying large camera bags and tripods. The fields fell into silence as the three stopped to chat. Over on the island for the day, they were hoping to capture an image of this shy bird. I reported my observations to them and cameras were frantically pulled out of bags. For a few minutes, there was a deafening silence and I watched the doubtful looks on their faces as if I had reported false findings. Suddenly a lone call echoed from the field below, verifying their presence. The excited group jumped into action and scanned the undergrowth for a glimpse.

I left them to it and continued exploring the island. Walking down past the fields above the old school, I stopped dead in my tracks as a cacophony of calls radiated back and forth between two fields on either side of the road. I counted quickly; one, two, three, four, possibly five. I couldn't be sure. They were moving so quickly, I couldn’t be sure if I was counting the same bird twice. I stood in the middle of the road, my eyes moving left to right, and back again, as if watching a tennis match, only the focus was on a small, mysterious bird hiding in the overgrown fields. I looked back up towards the photographers and noticed that they had packed up and moved further back along the path. As all three stood looking in opposite directions, I wanted to shout back to them but knew the second I opened my mouth, the fields would fall silent again. Later that evening, I met the trio again on the ferry back to the mainland. Not one photo between them, not even a glimpse.

Cottage ruin on Gola island in Donegal

The next year when back in Donegal again, I finally made my way out to Tory island for the first time. Gale force winds had battered the northwest earlier that morning and all ferry crossings had been cancelled until late afternoon when the storm subsided. Climbing onboard the ferry that evening, the skipper informed everyone with a hearty laugh that the journey would take more than an hour due to a strong headwind. I nestled into my seat, surveying the choppy water in the bay. It couldn’t be that bad if they had resumed service, I thought to myself. All positive thoughts quickly evaporated as the boat toppled across the waves in the sheltered bay. As we rounded the coastline of the islands in the bay and entered the open sea, we crested the first large wall of waves. I started humming in fear. It was a weird, wailing little tune which pitched loudly as the boat plummeted down into the valley of water between the waves. Rogue waves smashed against the side of the boat with such force, that I thought we had briefly submerged. For the next 40 minutes, I looked and sounded like a mad woman. There was only a handful of passengers, all thankfully sitting far enough away from me, not to witness my rambling intonations and momentary loss of sanity. Once the boat reached Tory, the sun re-appeared and there was instant calm as we stepped off the ferry.

West town on Tory island in Donegal

That evening, the sea was silky smooth in the island harbour. A pod of dolphins jumped and glided through the water like elegant dancers. Leaving West Town, and the main village, I passed the only shop on the island. A large concrete forecourt adjoins the road in front of the shop where the islanders rolled up in their vehicles before jumping out to run inside, leaving engines running and doors wide open. It was a hive of activity as the islanders came and went. I was about to wander on when something caught my eye. A small bird darted between the cars. Then, nothing for a second, before it raced towards the road and stopped. The small brown bird emitted a loud call before running onto the road.  I couldn't believe my eyes. There in front of me on the road, was the very bird I had tracked in the undergrowth the year before. Seemingly, one of the shyest and most elusive of birds, and here it was running around the busiest meeting point on island. Off he ran up the road and into a neighbouring field.  Suddenly a second corncrake appeared and strutted down the road towards the village. A car approached pulling in to allow him to make a safe exit into the field across the road. It seemed the corncrakes on Tory were a little less shy than their friends on the neighbouring islands.

Early the next morning, I walked through West town, the main hub of the island by the pier. It was shortly after sunrise and the village was quiet. At the end of the main street where the cottages start to peter out, tiny nettle filled fields, bordered by low stone walls, fill the gaps between the houses. I quietly perched myself on the stone wall, with my camera and long lens in hand. The air was still and quiet as the village slept. Suddenly the nettles rustled. This was followed by a loud call on the other side of the field. “Crex crex”. The sound moved quickly around the undergrowth and I followed it for the next half hour, while seeing nothing. The calling grew louder as the bird edged closer along a trail directly in front of me. A large stone broke up the path. I aimed the lens at the top of the stone and waited. Suddenly, a small head emerged from the nettles. It was a corncrake. He jumped up onto the stone, standing still for the briefest of moments. I grabbed two quick shots before he hopped back down into the undergrowth. With two potential images in my bag, I moved on swiftly to explore the rest of the island. The next evening as I sat on the ferry back to the mainland, I felt absolutely delighted. Not only had I seen a corncrake, I had managed to capture a shot of a bird we had discussed at the family dinner table many years before. To round it all off, the sea conditions were so calm, the return journey was like gliding through silk, compared to the rollercoaster ride on the way over.

View of Tory island from the mainland in Donegal

This summer just gone, it was announced that a corncrake has been heard on Clare island for the first time in thirty years. There is also a possible recording in Sligo and other good news points to increased numbers on the mainland in Mayo.  With the outbreak of Covid, numbers have not been documented on the islands due to lockdown. While we will have to wait until the pandemic is over to account real numbers, reports of corncrakes in new locations along the west coast prove positive. My obsession with these beautiful little summer visitors is ongoing and I look forward to photographing them in other Irish locations. As I write this, Spring is approaching and I can’t help but think about the long journey ahead of the few corncrakes that reach our shores and hope that all will arrive and find sanctuary in our protected habitats.