A small, unhurried record of the birds I meet along the edges of Tallinn Bay — Paljassaare, Pirita, Kakumäe and, when the ferry runs, Aegna. Nothing scientific: just counts, weather, the odd sketch and a lot of wind.
Latest entries · times are local, counts are honest guesses
Wind from the north-west, 9 m/s and a sky the colour of wet slate. Barnacle Geese came in low over the old treatment-works fence in loose ribbons — I stopped counting at about 1,800 and estimated the rest by blocks of fifty. Two White-tailed Eagles sat on the far spit and did absolutely nothing for forty minutes, which is exactly what eagles are for.
migrationgeeseraptorsDrizzle from the start. The heron at the river mouth has become a regular — same stone, same posture, same air of disapproval. A small flock of Goldeneye has arrived early; the males are still in their scruffy eclipse plumage and look like they got dressed in the dark.
riverducksAfter two days of westerlies the bay pushed a thick mat of bladderwrack onto the beach and the waders found it within the hour. Turnstones doing their thing — flipping everything, arguing with each other, flipping it again. A juvenile Curlew Sandpiper among the Dunlin was the bird of the week; the clean peachy wash on the breast gave it away before the bill did.
wadersbeachThe island in September is quiet in the best way. Walked the northern shore to the old battery and back. Out past the reef a line of dark shapes turned out to be the first returning Long-tailed Ducks — only a dozen, but their calls carry across the water like someone practising a clarinet badly, and I love it every single year.
islandsea ducksMost of the Common Terns have gone; the few that remain are juveniles begging from anyone who will listen. In the reeds the warblers have stopped singing and only tick at me. A Bearded Reedling pair pinged past — always heard before seen, often only heard.
reedslate summer“The shore is only ever half a place — it belongs to whatever the wind decided this morning.”
Maximum single-morning counts per season · all four shorelines combined
| Species | Estonian name | Spring 2025 | Summer 2025 | Autumn 2025 | Winter 25/26 | Autumn 2026* |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| Barnacle Goose | valgepõsk-lagle | 3,100 | 40 | 4,800 | — | 2,600 |
| Long-tailed Duck | aul | 900 | — | 1,250 | 2,200 | 12 |
| Common Eider | hahk | 420 | 160 | 95 | 8 | 30 |
| Common Goldeneye | sõtkas | 210 | 14 | 180 | 340 | 11 |
| Goosander | jääkoskel | 130 | 6 | 95 | 410 | — |
| Great Cormorant | kormoran | 60 | 240 | 190 | 3 | 46 |
| Mute Swan | kühmnokk-luik | 55 | 38 | 71 | 120 | 24 |
| Whooper Swan | laululuik | 44 | — | 60 | 85 | — |
| Dunlin | niidurisla | 120 | 70 | 160 | — | 52 |
| Ruddy Turnstone | kivirullija | 25 | 12 | 31 | — | 17 |
| Common Tern | jõgitiir | 90 | 210 | 15 | — | 7 |
| White-tailed Eagle | merikotkas | 3 | 2 | 4 | 5 | 2 |
| Steller's Eider | kirjuhahk | — | — | — | 1 | — |
My own year on the bay, built from five seasons of notebooks
Six birds I would miss most if they stopped coming
Winter visitor in huge numbers offshore. The spring chorus in April, before they head north, is the loveliest noise the bay makes.
Thousands stop on the city's edge each May and September. Their yapping carries into the apartment blocks at night.
A barn door with feathers. When one drifts over Paljassaare every gull and duck on the water lifts at once.
Harlequin plumage, bad manners, excellent company. Look for them on the seaweed lines after a westerly blow.
Arrives in early May as if it never left. Dives for sprats right off the Pirita promenade while joggers go past, unaware.
The one on the Pirita stone has been there, as far as I can tell, since 2022. Patience personified, and entirely unimpressed by me.
Where I walk, and what each place is good for
A flat, wind-bitten peninsula north of the port, half nature reserve and half industrial afterthought. Reedbeds, shallow lagoons and a long dyke. The best all-round site in the city.
River mouth, marina and a long sandy beach. Ducks and cormorants on the river, terns and gulls over the bay. Easy to reach, easy to combine with a coffee.
The western bay: boulders, seaweed and a view straight into the weather. Waders after storms, sea ducks passing in autumn gales.
A small forested island a short ferry ride out, with rocky shores and old fortifications. Quiet, windy, wonderful — and only reachable in the warmer months.
Nothing fancy — the bay rewards patience more than glass
Binoculars, 8×42. Bright enough for grey mornings, light enough to forget about. Anything bigger and I stop carrying it.
A second-hand scope. Only for Paljassaare and the sea-duck rafts off Pirita. Heavy, fogs up, indispensable in November.
Notebook and pencil. Pens freeze. Phones die in the cold. A pencil has never let me down at −15 °C.
Folding stool. The single best birding purchase I have made. Sit down and the shore comes to you.
Wool, then more wool. The wind off the Baltic finds every gap. Two thin layers beat one thick one.
A thermos. The mornings are long, the kiosks open late, and a warm drink is the difference between a good count and going home early.
I started this journal in the spring of 2021, when long walks were the only thing left to do and the shore was the only place with enough room. I kept going because the birds kept coming back, and because writing things down turned out to be the best way to actually see them.
There is no newsletter, no comments and nothing to sign up for. The counts are my own and are shared with the local recording scheme at the end of each season. If you spot a mistake in an identification, you are probably right — the bay has fooled me many times.