Following
the whistle.
La Digue · Seychelles
An encounter worth waiting for.
We had been in the Seychelles for more than two weeks, but one of the birds we had most hoped to encounter was still missing. My father and I had already seen and photographed many of the islands’ endemic species. The Seychelles paradise flycatcher, however, had been one of our main reasons for making the trip. To find it, we left Praslin for La Digue, with a day to explore before the ferry would take us back that evening.
White terns were hunting around the harbour when we arrived. We had not seen them before, and they immediately held our attention: almost entirely white, with dark eyes and a remarkable lightness in flight. We spent some time photographing them before continuing towards the Veuve reserve. Along the way, we discovered a little of the island, watched other birds and stopped at beaches where hermit crabs moved around us. There was plenty to enjoy, although the flycatcher was never far from my thoughts.
The species had come remarkably close to disappearing. In 1965, its population on La Digue was estimated at just 28 birds.[1] Numbers gradually recovered, and a survey in 2001 estimated 218–290 individuals on the island, which still held the last remaining viable population.[2] Their future depended on the survival of the native woodland, but establishing populations elsewhere would also make the species less vulnerable to a disaster on a single island. In 2008, following habitat restoration and rat eradication, 23 flycatchers were moved to Denis Island, where they soon began breeding.[3] Another population was established on Curieuse in 2018–2019. In 2020, the species was moved from Critically Endangered to Vulnerable on the IUCN Red List—a significant recovery, although habitat loss remained a threat.[4] The forest we were heading towards was part of that continuing story.
Inside the reserve, we walked beneath the canopy through the humid woodland. Birds moved around us: pigeons, fodies, bulbuls and mynas, with the occasional glimpse of a tropicbird overhead. We explored slowly, looking between branches and watching anything that moved. There was so much activity, yet no sign of the bird we had come for. As the day went on, I became increasingly conscious of our return ferry. We had travelled all this way, and I began to wonder whether we might leave without seeing a flycatcher at all.
First,
a whistle.
Then we heard a call we had not heard before: a distinctive, melodic whistle, with an almost rhythmic quality. We followed the sound, searching through the foliage. Before I could make out the bird itself, I saw a long, dark blue tail feather moving gently in the air. A moment later, a male flew into view. There he was at last, his long tail following him through the branches. He was close, but rarely still, and leaves and twigs kept coming between him and the camera. We struggled to get a clear photograph before he disappeared again. Even so, the uncertainty had lifted. We had found him.
We stayed in the area, listening and hoping for another opportunity. When his call reached us again, we waited as he gradually came closer. At one point, he perched only a few metres away—too close for me to photograph properly with my 500 mm lens. Then he moved a little further back and landed on an open perch. The light fell beautifully on him, with the forest forming a soft green background behind his dark plumage. For a few seconds, everything came together. This was the photograph I had hoped to make before we had even arrived on La Digue. I took the pictures, and he flew on.
After that encounter, we continued looking for the female. Eventually, we saw both birds moving through the woodland together. We watched them approach until the female settled in the open, also in lovely light and with a clear background. Her appearance was so different from the male’s, but she was just as beautiful to watch. Having spent part of the day wondering whether we would see either bird, we had now had close encounters with both.
We sat for a while afterwards, enjoying the forest without searching quite so intently. Above us, flying foxes began moving through the canopy in extraordinary numbers. There seemed to be more than a hundred, and the noise overhead became a spectacle of its own. Later, the flycatcher appeared once more among the green branches. By then, I already had the photographs I had wanted. We could simply watch him for a little longer before it was time to leave.
On our way towards the exit, we had one final encounter: a female sitting on her nest. After watching the flycatchers move so quickly through the forest, seeing one settled there was particularly special. We took just a few photographs and continued on our way, keeping our visit brief to avoid disturbing her. It was a quiet ending to a day we had spent so long looking forward to.