There can be miracles

For some white-tailed eagles, like Frisa and Skye, things seem to come naturally to them. They are a highly productive pair and take everything in their stride. But for some other pairs, nothing ever seems to go right for them.

The mature birds which occupy Territory 19 on Mull are just such a case. They are a similar age to Frisa and Skye but try as they might, year after year, they never quite manage to raise a chick. For them it had been ten long years of failure. The closest they came to success was one year soon after they first paired up. Their weak, scrawny little chick just never looked like he had it in him to survive - and sure enough, he died at just four weeks. That had been seven years ago. Every year since, they had built up a nest, they had courted, mated, incubated eggs - and then it had all fizzled out. I just expected it to happen now. Occasionally I suspected they had hatched but things had always gone wrong very soon after. They seemed destined to never quite get there. I really felt sorry for them as they went through the motions every spring. Just like Frisa and Skye, they had a very close bond and were always near to one another. One early spring day I watched them on the shore of their favourite sea loch. The male caught a fish and sat on a boulder eating it at a relaxed pace - nothing much makes them hurry! After about ten minutes, he looked up from his catch and across to his patient mate sitting on the other side of the bay. With that, he launched off in her direction, the remains of the fish in his talons and landed right next to her. Then he jumped to one side and left his gift for her to devour. It was a touching moment between two big raptors who are probably devoid of much, if any, emotion. We're told it's all instinct of course but at that moment, it seemed genuine enough and I thought it was maybe a good omen for the forthcoming breeding season.

By the end of March, I was sure they would try to nest at one of their favourite eyries on a big sea cliff. They may have failed there many times before but they were determined to try again. They had built up the nest and lined it with pale yellow moor grass. Laying eggs could only be days away. And then they vanished. They were not at any of their regular haunts, never on their favourite perches. For a while I actually feared the worst but then consoled myself that they had probably just failed again, even earlier than usual, and I got on with all the other monitoring and field work I had to do. It's a very busy time of year and there just are not enough hours in the day to devote to pairs which fail every year. When sea eagle breeding attempts end suddenly, they often seem to 'disappear' for a while and we're never quite sure where they go. Sometimes out of frustration they may turn up at the nest of another pair which is nesting successfully and generally get in the way of that attempt. They just don't seem to know what else to do.

Several week later, I got a call from a friend who had been out walking his dog and they'd decided to go off the beaten track and up a river gully. Suddenly he was aware of a very large bird overhead, his dog made a run for it and the large bird was making a strange type of call which he didn't recognise. He was pretty sure it was a sea eagle as he glimpsed it through the trees but he was more interested in getting his dog back which he eventually found further up the gully crunching on the bones of some dead seabird. All the signs he described - the alarmed bird, the calling, the prey - made my spine tingle with anticipation. All this had happened several days previously; he'd only now just remembered to report it. I got a rough grid reference out of him and within the hour headed straight for the area. With a thumping heart I set off up the gully. There were more tell-tale signs - lots of big, white, tufts of fluffy eagle down and shots of eagle splash over the conifer branches. Eagles had been here - and had been very active. Then, there were the prey remains - a fulmar's wing, a hare's foot and a pile of gull feathers. As I looked up from the ground and straight ahead, my eyes locked onto a pale movement in the trees ahead. I knew that colour of straw. I slowly raised my binoculars and there was the head of an incubating sea eagle. I froze, praying she hadn't seen me. Seconds later I began to back up, slowly, inch by inch, and eventually back behind the trees for cover.

But I had been spotted, maybe not by the female but I looked up and there was her mate high in the sky above me. He'd watched my every move. I had stopped just in time. He hadn't raised the alarm and now he could see me retreating. So this is where they had hidden themselves away. The Territory 19 pair had previously used this area as a roost and must have been sneakily building another nest out of sight while I was focussing on their main nest many miles away. I would leave them in peace now, fingers crossed, hoping for their sakes that finally, finally, this might be their year.

Tomorrow - the waiting is over...or is it?

Dave Sexton RSPB Scotland Mull Officer

2150hrs