Turkey birding report - now published in the October 2018 issue of Birdwatch magazine

On a lamp-post near Patara in south west Turkey, an immaculate vanilla-and-liquorice Black-eared Wheatear is pausing on its northward migration, giving a scratchy, swallow-like song.  It’s an unpromising spot for birds.  Polytunnels fill the valley; most of the greenery here is under plastic or glass.  A line of liquidambar trees planted by the local government alternates with bougainvillea by the smooth new road leading down to Patara’s famous beach.  Each tree has its own irrigation spout: just one of the ways in which people have altered the water table.  That this was once a marsh is shown by reed-filled ditches where bright green frogs give a rubbery bath-toy squelch.  Cetti’s Warblers shout sporadically, loud and sudden enough to make me start.

Everywhere I go in this part of Turkey I am reminded of what it once must have been like.  The flat coastal plains between the hills were once extensive wetlands, but as elsewhere, the landscape has been primed for people and their enterprises.  On the coast this means tourism.  Here, just inland, it means a great quantity of tomatoes.  Truckloads of them.  There are other crops besides, warmed by the sun (already powerful in mid-April) and watered by snowmelt from the nearby Taurus mountains.

There doesn’t seem to be much room for wildlife, but at several points on my week-long trip I am pleasantly surprised.  Here and there are corners of wetland, hemmed in by development and often littered and polluted, but still providing a vital habitat for birds moving through the area. 

I spent a day with Ali Ìhsan Emre, a local conservationist, visiting wetlands around Fethiye.  Ali is an outspoken, distinguished-looking gent of 61 with a long white beard pinched in at the middle with multicoloured elastic bands.  He has been instrumental in local conservation issues, ranging from protecting nesting loggerhead turtles on the tourist beaches to lobbying the government to protect what’s left of the wetlands.  I could not have picked a better guide.

Early in the morning Ali takes me to a canalised section of the river at Çaliş, to the north of Fethiye.  Although little more than a suburban concrete drainage channel, there are patches of shallow water, mud and reeds: just enough to support a few pausing Green Sandpipers, Little Ringed Plovers and a pair of Pintail. 

We move on to what Ali calls ‘Bird Paradise’ behind the beach at Çaliş.  I had been sceptical about this place, misled by the name into thinking that it might be an aviary.  Ali leads me through a metal gate (locked “to keep the drunks out”) and along a path between a remnant patch of saltmarsh and the straightened river.  Where the latter empties into the sea, the scene opens out to a view of hazy mountains behind the milky-blue bowl of Fethiye Bay.

We’re now at the mouth of a tidal inlet.  Fishermen wade in the calm water, catching shrimp in nets cast by hand.  Nine Purple Herons stand like rusty rakes scattered across the few acres of marsh before creakily taking flight and heading north, followed by a line of wonky-looking Glossy Ibises.  Red-rumped Swallows, Little Stints, single Black-winged Stilt and Greenshank and terns including Gull-billed rest or drop in to feed.

Çaliş marsh is threatened by drainage and development.  Next to it is a beachside restaurant, built without permission, whose late-night music and buzzing generator often disturb the resting birds.  To the north, the town of Çaliş continues to expand, a wave of white, terracotta-roofed development that looks as if will crash and spill down onto the vulnerable tawny triangle of the reserve.

Ali campaigned for seven years to have this place protected.  He is concerned that even now it is vulnerable.  The tourist lira is the chief factor in planning decisions, and the drive to lure it here has filled up almost the entire valley with buildings and infrastructure.  Ali and a group of volunteers from Izmir University monitor the biodiversity of ‘Bird Paradise’ to ensure its ongoing protection.  Local businesses are beginning to see the benefits of turtle conservation in attracting tourists; Ali hopes that the tide will turn in time for the birds, too.

Along the coast at Ciftlik, another even smaller marsh behind the beach is overlooked by newly built holiday apartments that look as if they might sink into the sodden ground.  They are being bought up by Russians, says Ali, but for now they stand empty next to piles of building detritus, polystyrene and discarded toilets.  A scum sits on the surface of the dwindling wetland.  Ali stands on a heap of rubble, camera in hand, surveying the scene.

Against the odds, but perhaps because it’s all that’s left, Ciftlik marsh is full of birds.  Waders including Whimbrel, Black-tailed Godwit and Wood, Green and Marsh Sandpipers probe at the muddy edges.  Squacco Herons drop in and out.  A Night Heron circles above for several minutes, no doubt scrutinising the evidence of humans and the compromised marsh, deciding whether to call in or not.

Next is Akgöl, or ‘White Lake’, so named because of its pale bed in the dry summer months.  It’s a picturesque place: a reed-fringed freshwater lake behind a deserted beach, surrounded by peaceful wooded hills.  It looks promising, but the only waterbirds today are two Pygmy Cormorants.  It’s early afternoon, and perhaps a little early for peak migration. 

Tiger moth, Akgol (photo: Ali Ihsan Emre)

Walking through the pinewoods around the lake, we fleetingly hear the shrill piping of a White-throated Kingfisher.  The woods are fragrant and airy, full of insects and wild flowers.  My first taste of pungent wild asparagus is a revelation compared to the bland stuff in British supermarkets.

Little Ringed Plovers chase each other in noisy display flights over Little Stints resting next to a puddle.  Along the bushy strand behind the beach and in lush fields with enormous bramble thickets, we find Hoopoes sitting in the sand like folded paper fans, Woodchat Shrikes, a Great Reed Warbler and more.  A Nightingale gives a single burst from scrub on the edge of the reedbed.  A male tortoise in search of a mate lumbers though a cow field. 

Woodchat shrike, Akgol (photo: Ali Ihsan Emre)

After a late lunch in a lokanta (canteen-style restaurant) run by a friend of Ali’s, we move on in his 30-year-old red Toyota pickup to Kayaköy, site of a famous abandoned Greek village and inspiration for Louis de Bernières’ 2004 novel Birds Without Wings, which aptly features an ornithological theme. 

Krüper’s Nuthatch proves relatively easy to find in the pinewoods between Fethiye and Kayaköy, and the lush valley that frames the ruins is full of wild flowers, tortoises and birds.  Corn Buntings jangle their purses from small fields, groups of migrant Yellow Wagtails (including Black-headed) forage among free-range sheep.  White Storks, Alpine Swifts and a buzzing flock of Bee-eaters pass by overhead.

The historic ruins of Kayaköy itself are fascinating, abandoned in 1923 and shaken by a series of earthquakes.  The eerie houses of the departed Greeks provide habitat for Blue Rock Thrushes and Red-rumped Swallows.  Jays of the black-capped atricapillus race are common everywhere.  At times, standing in this green valley, hearing Blackbirds, Collared Doves and Swallows, I can imagine I am in England on a summer’s day.

A boat trip along the coast on a scuba diving trip proves disappointing for birds, with no seabirds apart from a few gulls (including Audouin’s and Slender-billed).  However, one stop in a deserted cove produces Peregrine, Long-legged Buzzard and another Blue Rock Thrush.

By contrast, a trip to the ruined Lykian capital of Patara is far more productive.  The area surrounding the honey-coloured arches, columns and amphitheatres of the ancient port city is protected from development.  As a result, Patara is entirely unspoilt and historically and ornithologically compelling.  Marsh Harrier, Glossy Ibis and Squacco Heron float over the reedbeds.  Undisturbed farmland and scrub holds Masked and Woodchat Shrikes, Corn Bunting, migrant Pied Flycatcher and Whinchat.  The ruins are alive with Tawny Pipit, Lesser Kestrel, Hoopoe, Spanish Sparrow, both rock thrushes, and Black-eared, Isabelline and Northern Wheatears.  Nesting loggerhead turtles along the beach’s vast sweep of sand are another draw later in the spring and summer.

Walking back up the road to catch the otobus back to Fethiye, I rescue a perfect baby tortoise from a perilous road crossing, watched by a dog standing guard over a group of sheep.  I pause to watch the Black-eared Wheatear singing his scratchy Swallow-like song incongruously from a lamp-post.  From up there he can see miles and miles of intensive cultivation.  Crested larks forage between road and polytunnel.  A Rock Nuthatch pipes from the rocky hillside; Alpine Swifts slice the air above.  Here, as at Ciftlik, Çaliş and so many places in this crowded world, wildlife is still finding places to survive, despite us.

Rock rose (photo: Ali Ihsan Emre)