Paxton Pits for Beginners: A Quiet Wildlife Walk in Cambridgeshire

By Carol Leather

Paxton Pits at a glance

It was a cold December morning, the world felt grey, and I remember huddling in the visitor centre at Paxton Pits, feeling like a total imposter. I was surrounded by people who knew their birds, and my biggest fear was that I'd spend two hours just nodding along, understanding nothing.

I almost didn't bring my camera out of the bag. I thought, 'What's the point? Everything will be a distant speck, and my photos will just be blurry reminders of things I can't even name'.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

That first walk changed how I saw Paxton Pits. It became one of my favourite local reserves, somewhere we have returned to often, because it rewards the simplest kind of wildlife watching: one bird watched properly.

The easiest first route: the Heron Trail

For a first visit, start with the Heron Trail. It is flat, well-signposted and gives you a gentle introduction to the reserve without making you feel as though you have to cover everything.

From the visitor centre, follow the trail towards the Hayden Hide and the Kingfisher Hide. Take your time around the Heronry lakes. When you go into a hide, go in quietly, sit down before you scan, listen first, then lift your binoculars or your camera.

Look at reed edges, posts, overhanging branches, open water and the still grey shapes at the margins. Wildlife often appears when you give it time.

What to look for, season by season

Paxton Pits has something to notice in every month, but the easy wins shift through the year.

Winter (December to February)

When it's cold and grey outside, I feel a resistance to putting on warm layers and heading 30 minutes down the A1 to Paxton Pits. But the half-empty car park, the chance of Goldeneye or Goosander on the water, and having the hides to myself are my reward.

I'll start my walk with the all-weather paths of the Heron Trail and enjoy the views over the South and North Heronry Lakes. The whistles of the Wigeon welcome me to my happy place.

Spring (April to May)

As spring arrives I close my eyes and listen to the dawn chorus reverberate around me.

If I'm lucky, one voice breaks through the cacophony. A smile breaks over my face. A nightingale.

Summer (June to August)

In summer I turn my attention to smaller creatures.

Jealous of a friend's photos of Norfolk Hawker dragonflies I asked him for help finding them. He drew me a map showing the path I needed to take near the allotments. It felt like being let in on a small Paxton Pits secret as I stood watching them patrol their own local patch.

Autumn (September to November)

My attention returns to Paxton's bird life as the leaves start to turn. The hobbies have long since left along with the swallows. The lakes begin to fill with ever-increasing ducks and geese as their calls echo over the water.

Telling one gull from another

For the first hour of the guided walk, I struggled.

The mist hanging over the lake was thick, and the birds were distant shapes.

The guide, Martin, would point his telescope and name a bird, but to my eyes, it was just a smudge.

Then we came to the gulls. A cloud of them. I'll be honest, my brain used to file all gulls under "noisy chip-stealers."

Martin pointed to two birds side-by-side.

"See the difference?" he asked, sensing my confusion.

"Everyone gets stuck on gulls," he said. "Especially this time of year. The one on the right is a Black-headed Gull, but the trick is, it only has a full black head in summer, and even then it's actually dark chocolate coloured. In winter, you just look for that little black ear spot, the red bill, and the red legs."

He pointed to the other, slightly smaller bird. "And that's a Common Gull. Notice its yellow-green legs and that thin bill with the dark band. We don't see them this far south in Cambridgeshire all that often, so it's a nice spot."

Suddenly, it wasn't a confusing mass of birds anymore. Knowing what to look for felt like I'd been let in on a secret, but a flicker of doubt followed. Would I remember all this if I saw them again?

Determined to hang on to the feeling, I quickly jotted the details down in a small notebook.

What was once just a 'gull' was now a Common Gull or a Black-headed Gull. The world had gone from being an indecipherable blur to a page I was just beginning to learn how to read, and I didn't want to lose my place.

I remember thinking to myself, "Stop trying to see everything. Just try to see one thing clearly".

A Goosander lifts off from the lake

As the walk neared its end, I found myself trailing at the back of the group, lost in my own thoughts. The others stopped briefly at a viewpoint, and I heard a quick mention of "Goosander" before they moved on.

That name, which was new to me an hour ago, now meant something.

When I reached the fence, I paused. My eyes scanned the water, and there it was.

A bird with a black head and a sharp red bill. The dark splash on its back, standing out against the snowy white body feathers, looked like someone had spilled a bottle of ink.

A male Goosander. And this time there was another bird with him, presumably his mate.

I could see they were about to take flight, so I lifted the camera. I knew, from past failures, that I needed a fast shutter speed to have any chance of freezing the action.

A little voice in my head started chanting, '1/1600s, at least. Just get the speed right'.

He took off, and my photo was, well, okay. It felt like a small, private victory. A perfect photo? No, but it was sharp enough, and it was a moment that was entirely my own.

Kingfishers are worth waiting for

As I turned to catch up with the others, I saw it. A searing flash of electric blue.

A kingfisher.

My heart hammered in my chest. I could count the number of times I had seen these birds on one hand. My foot stopped midair and before it hit the ground I had my camera to my eye. My first instinct was to rush, to panic.

But the lesson from the Goosander echoed in my mind: slow down.

I sank onto a wet bench, the cold seeping through my jeans, and told myself, "Don't just be a photographer. Be a statue. Your only job is to be still."

The bird darted about, a blur of turquoise and orange, before finally settling on a branch nearby.

My fingers were numb from the cold, so I used my thumbnail to feel the edge of the dial. I moved the focus square onto the bird's head and silently begged it to stay put.

I grabbed a few shots before taking a sneak peek at the screen on the back. I had been told many times not to "chimp" but I just couldn't resist. Had I caught it in the frame and in focus?

I had.

For the next hour, I just sat there. The reward wasn't just the photos. It was the occasion. The chance to sit quietly nearby, each of us aware of the other, neither of us needing to move.

Practical field notes for your trip

Success doesn't have to mean a rare sighting or a perfect photograph. One bird watched properly is enough.

The "one thing to look for" challenge

Don't scan the water for frantic movement. Scan the reedy edges for absolute stillness. Look for a tall, grey shape standing perfectly motionless at the water's edge, like a garden statue come to life.

Because herons are large and patient, they are a gift for any photographer tired of taking blurry photos of fast-moving birds.

Sit quietly for five minutes and just watch.

See how a creature can use complete stillness as a tool. It's a small act, but it will teach you more about the patience needed for wildlife photography than a dozen fleeting glimpses ever could.

Closing reflection

Leaving the reserve that first day, I realised the photos on my memory card were only part of what I had taken home.

I had arrived feeling like an outsider. I left with one gull I could recognise, one Goosander I had followed for myself, and one kingfisher I had waited for instead of chasing.

Later, the photos would be a little jolt back to the wet bench, the blue flash, and the broad smile on my face.

That was enough to bring me back.

Where to walk next