By the time our group gathered at RSPB Old Moor, the official weather warnings had passed, but the heat had not really got the message. It was, in theory, cooler than the day before. In practice, that seemed to mean only a few degrees lower, still close to 30°C, still heavy, still the kind of day where every patch of shade and breeze felt like a small act of kindness.
Old Moor greeted us with two lions. They were not, admittedly, the sort of wildlife we had come looking for, but the Pride of Yorkshire sculptures made a cheerful entrance to the reserve: colourful, unexpected and just slightly surreal among the grasses and paths. From there we passed into the visitor centre, a lovely courtyard of stone buildings, café tables, signs, shop, toilets and the practical comforts that make a day out feel possible before the serious business of walking, watching and wilting in the heat begins. Even there, before we had properly entered the reserve, wildlife was part of the welcome. We could hear swifts calling. At first it sounded as if they were somewhere in the buildings, but it turned out to be a speaker playing swift calls. All part of an attempt to encourage nesting birds to see this as a good place to return to next year. Then, as if on cue, a real swift flashed overhead.
That felt like the proper start of the day.
Old Moor is not a nature reserve that hides its human shaping. Its map is full of names that tell you what kind of place this is: the Mere, Wader Scrape, Field Pools, Wath Ings, the Bittern Hide, the Bird Garden Hide, the Lookout, the Discovery Trail, the Reedbed Path. Some names are practical; others sound like invitations. The Secret Island. The Sand Zone. The Water Zone. Wobbly bridges. Stepping stones. A barefoot trail. It is a reserve for serious birdwatchers but it is also a reserve that understands children, families, beginners and people who might simply need a gentle way into the outdoors.
As we set off along the Discovery Trail towards the Bittern Bus Stop, the first thing I noticed was not a bird at all. It was the butterflies. They seemed to be everywhere: lifting from thistles, skimming the edges of the path, disappearing into the grasses. Some I knew; quite a few I did not. On a day like that, with the ground dry and the sun pressing down, the reserve felt alive with small wings.
The reedbed trail was so dry in places that you could see the dirt underfoot. It was a reminder that nature was having a hard time in this dry weather. The first bird that properly caught me was a reed bunting, perched on a bush just in front of us. Then, as I drifted towards the back of the group while others pushed on, I picked up a heron. It felt like a day to ease into things. I wonder if the heat does that; maybe it slows you down whether you planned to slow down or not.
Along the trail, Old Moor’s interpretation boards asked for a different kind of attention. One, titled “Weather at the bus stop: Learning to accept passing emotions”, invited visitors to pause and notice the weather through each of the senses. What can you see? How does the air feel? Is the mind already judging the weather as good or bad? It drew a line between weather and emotion: both pass through; both can be noticed without being resisted.
On another day, that might have felt a little abstract. In that heat, it felt immediate. The weather was not background, it was part of the walk. It changed the pace of the group, the appeal of the hides, the pleasure of shade and perhaps even the kind of wildlife we noticed. The reserve’s wellness signs could easily have felt like add ons but here they sat naturally in the landscape. Old Moor is, after all, a place built from disturbance and recovery. A former industrial landscape now inviting people to breathe, listen and pay attention.
At the Bittern Bus Stop, geese walked away from us with the comic dignity of birds who had decided we were not worth their time. Water lilies opened on the pond. A black headed gull stood on a post. A coot family: two adults and an older youngster moved across the water. A family of greylag geese passed through the scene.
Then came the Bittern Hide and with it the pleasure of stepping out of the sun. Inside, with the shutters and doors open, a cool breeze moved through the hide. After the glare outside, it felt wonderful. Hides are strange spaces: part shelter, part theatre, part classroom. They make you look properly. At first there is just water and reeds. Then the scene separates into detail. A great crested grebe appeared with chicks on its back, one of those sights that makes everyone in a hide soften at once. Its partner brought food while the young rode safely among the feathers. We were looking across the same stretch of water as earlier although from a different angle.
There was a grey shape in the reeds that caused some debate. Was it a bird? A shadow? Something perched? Greylag geese swam close and eventually the mystery shifted, came down to the water and seemed to swap places with another bird that climbed up into the same position. These are the moments that make group birdwatching both funny and useful: several pairs of eyes, several interpretations and plenty of uncertainty.
On the next lake, a cormorant sat on a post with its head down. Across the treeline, a bird of prey raised hopes of a marsh harrier until it showed its wings and resolved itself into a buzzard. A great white egret flew over a heron and for a brief moment they circled lightly together, pale and grey against the reserve’s green and blue. Magpies passed. A lapwing and pied wagtail appeared at the far edge of what I could make out without binoculars, before Jon’s telescope, the big gun of the group, brought them closer.
We walked on, stopping again to watch swifts and swallows flying. Then came one of my favourite moments of the day. The group had paused because we could hear a whitethroat singing from a bush. Everyone moved on into The Lookout Hide but I stayed outside, not quite ready to give up. I had a feeling the bird would be singing from the top of a branch somewhere, hidden in plain sight. I walked around, changed angle, peered up through the leaves, waited and eventually there it was: a clear view of the whitethroat singing.
There is a particular pleasure in that kind of sighting. Not rare, perhaps, but earned. I managed to call over a couple of people who were interested or at least not too busy in the hide and we shared the view before moving on.
The Lookout itself offered a broader sweep of the reserve. Through the scope we picked out redshank. There were little egrets, tufted ducks and pochard. From there we moved on to Wader Scrape, where swans with cygnets moved through the water, lapwings gave lovely views, a female mallard guided young and an oystercatcher added its bold black and white presence to the scene.
At Wath Ings Hide, there were lesser black backed gulls and another wader to puzzle over before it resolved into redshank. Then, over lunch, we witnessed the kind of scene that nature documentaries often soften until you see it happen in front of you. Baby ducks were diving under the water as large gulls came close. Their mother tried to provide cover, but the gulls gathered. One grabbed a duckling. There was a brief, brutal struggle as the gulls squabbled, the duckling dropped and was picked up again, until one gull flew slightly upward and swallowed it in one movement.
It was hard to watch but it was also part of the day. Nature reserves are not theme parks. They are places where life is visible and that includes the parts we might prefer not to see. The same water that holds lilies and grebe chicks also holds hunger, risk and predation.
At Field Pools East there were Canada geese and black headed gulls. At Field Pools West, a couple of little grebes. By then the heat, the distance and the repetition of hides and paths began to make the reserve feel larger than expected. At one point I wondered whether we would ever come to the end of the trail. Then I realised we had effectively turned back on ourselves, passing The Lookout again as part of a long, thin loop.
That moment of recognition brought back another memory. I had been at Old Moor in December 2017, when my children were much younger. We had come to the play area then and had a brilliant time. Since then I had only really passed nearby on cycling adventures along the Trans Pennine Trail, including journeys to and from York. I had not properly returned. I was glad to be back and feel that moment when memories from previous chapters of my life resurfaced, maybe little uncomfortably although they were happy memories of what turns out were simpler times.
This time, with no little people in tow, we initially passed the play area on the way to the Bird Garden Hide. There, feeders brought the birds close. We had lovely views of long tailed tits and blue tits. Earlier in the day, one member of the group had mentioned that he had not seen a robin recently. As if to make a point, a robin came over and then actually came inside the hide, making quite sure it could not be missed.
Some of the group planned to head on by car to another area but we went upstairs to the café for hot drinks, which amused the staff. Perhaps hot chocolate is not the obvious choice on a day nudging 30°C but sometimes the body wants what it wants. We followed this with a second lunch outside, sitting under the shade of a sun umbrella.
After that, curiosity pulled us back out. I had seen that Old Moor had invested in its children’s trail and wanted to know what it was like. The family map presents this part of the reserve differently from the main birding map. The same landscape becomes an adventure of Secret Island, wobbly bridges, stepping stones, den building, pond dipping, play zones and short loops. It is not a lesser version of the reserve. It is an invitation to enter it through play.
So we headed through the den making area towards the Secret Island, crossed its wobbly bridges, stepped over the dry ground where wetter boggier patches might once have been, moved through the children’s play area, crossed another bridge, inspected a small tunnel and made our way back towards the family hide.
And there, after all the larger views and longer loops, came another highlight: a little grebe adding rotting vegetation to its nest. It worked with quiet purpose, then left the eggs uncovered just long enough for us to get a clear view. It was a tiny domestic scene in the middle of a vast restored landscape. We ended by the lilies in the pond dipping area, then took a quick wander through the shop before heading off.
Old Moor’s history is not hidden. Interpretation boards around the reserve explain that this peaceful wetland sits in a landscape shaped by coal mining, railways, pollution and dereliction. The surrounding collieries, Wath Main and Manvers Main, once dominated the area. The Trans Pennine Trail to the south follows ground once occupied by Wath Marshalling Yard. Locals knew parts of this landscape as “Hell’s Kitchen” because of fires and industrial pollution. Both pits closed in 1988, and regeneration began in the mid-1990s.
That knowledge changes how you see the place. The pylons do not spoil the view; they belong to the story. The numbered reedbeds R1 to R5 on the map, are not random patches of vegetation but managed compartments of habitat. The hides, scrapes, ditches, pools, mudflats and islands are not accidental wilderness. They are repair work. Human effort once damaged this landscape; human effort is now helping it hold bitterns, grebes, lapwings, egrets, reed buntings, dragonflies, butterflies, children, birders, walkers and today people simply looking for shade.
That may be what makes Old Moor so compelling. It is not beautiful because nothing ever happened there. It is beautiful because something did and because the story did not end there.
Anyone wondering whether RSPB Old Moor is worth a visit: yes. Go for the birds. Go for the butterflies. Go for the hides, the café, the play trails, the lilies, the reedbeds, the family friendly maps, the industrial history or the chance to sit quietly and let the weather pass through.