At the outset, Richard Baines says: “You don’t need binoculars.” This is not what I expect to hear on a walk where the main focus is birds. The sun has yet to rise, but we can see our way across muddy ground crunchy with ice. That is the next surprise in a day that will be full of them: we are still in February but Richard points out that ornithological spring is well under way. “Birds are starting to sing,” he says. “Some, like the crossbill, might already have laid eggs.”

We follow a path up to an open ridge, but bird sounds are conspicuously absent. Richard turns back and heads down into a sheltered wooded valley. We have driven up from Pickering to the North York Moors, an area he has been exploring for more than 40 years, his experiences charted in recent memoir The Rarity Garden. As a 14-year-old budding ornithologist he decided to learn bird songs and calls. “I had spent too many woodland walks being disappointed by not seeing any birds, but I could hear a great deal,” he says. “When I started to prioritise sound above sight, the trees came alive and I have never had a bad woodland walk since.” Our walk today aims to land that message for me.

As we drop down into a wooded glade, a large bird flits out of the trees, turns and is gone. “Great start!” says Richard. “Male goshawk.”

Now we stop in front of a small stand of alder and hazel. A bird is singing, so I get out my phone and load Merlin, the app that has revolutionised my ability to identify birds. “Yes, let’s see what you get,” says Richard with a twinkle in his eye. I glance down and see three bird names quickly ping on to the screen. Song thrush, chaffinch and blackbird. I look up. Something is not quite right: all the sounds are emanating from the same place. And then it happens: an unmistakable mewling cry, coming from the top of the alder, where all the other sounds have originated. Merlin duly obliges: “Buzzard.”

Richard is chuckling. “Any thoughts?”

“That thrush just did something incredible.”

We listen a little longer, then Richard explains how a lifetime of learning bird sounds took an unexpected turn in 2014 when Cornell University brought out its gamechanging app, Merlin, a bird-sound identifier that now has more than 10 million users worldwide.

“It’s a brilliant tool for learning birdsong, but it’s also revealing lots of unexpected information,” he says.

One such moment came on a walk in May 2025. Richard was leading a group looking for nightjars in clear-felled areas of plantation woodland near where we are walking. A participant who had lagged behind suddenly came running back to the group with the news that Merlin had picked up a nightingale’s song. Richard immediately turned the group around and went back. “Nightingales are rarely sighted north of Cambridgeshire, never in the North York Moors,” he says. “It would have been momentous.”

Instead, they found a song thrush.

“It may have learned the song on its spring migration, maybe even in the Mediterranean. Merlin is teaching a lot, but it’s also revealing gaps in our knowledge.”

The song thrush is not the only bird playing tricks. As the bottom of the valley flattens out, I spot a great tit landing in the willows by the stream, then singing like no great tit I’ve heard before.

“It’s mimicking a marsh tit,” says Richard. By the time I get Merlin going, a song thrush has started singing. This time, with the sun risen, we can see it clearly, and Richard whispers: “It’s doing a nuthatch.”

Merlin pops up with: “Coot.”

We both stare at the screen, then replay the recording. Sure enough, there is a snippet of low quacks. This time, even Richard is staggered. “That is a first. There definitely isn’t a coot within 10 miles of here.”

Standing in a puddle of icy water, I am suddenly aware that I may have just witnessed a small addition to human knowledge. Significantly, I have not once thought about taking a picture.

For Richard, these reactions are what make the walks special. “Being thrilled by bird sound really frees people up, especially if you’ve got used to the idea that success is a good photograph.”

He has brought people with sight loss on the walks. “They are often much more sensitive to sound and so it’s fascinating to get their skills involved.”

We carry on and, with Richard’s guidance, a whole new sonic world opens up for me, including, far away, the honking of pink-footed geese arriving from Iceland. They are so high I can’t see them, but Richard thinks he knows where they might land, so we quickly transfer to the nearby flooded fields of Ryedale. Extreme cold in eastern Europe has sent thousands of geese towards the UK, and now we see hundreds of pink-footed geese coming down to land and, among them, the black barred chests of Russian white-fronted geese (“white-fronted” refers to the bird’s forehead, not chest). In a normal year, Yorkshire might welcome a couple of dozen of these, but now we are witnessing several hundred in one place. “A once in a 25-year event,” says Richard.

Having already flown about 3,000 miles from their Siberian breeding grounds to the Dutch coast, these birds have decided that an extra few hundred miles across the North Sea is a good idea. That seems like magic, but there is more. Next day, Richard phones. “I’ve been looking at the photos of those geese and there was something even more unusual among them: another Siberian visitor, a single tundra bean goose.”

I like that. Despite my new interest in sound, I’ll hang on to my camera.

Yorkshire Coast Nature offers various nature walks, including Bird Sound Safaris, from £40