BY PHIL MARKS
The Return of the Capercaillie to Seafield & Strathspey
In the ancient pinewoods of Kinveachy and Castle Grant, a sound that had grown dangerously faint is echoing once more. This spring, the misty clearings of the Seafield & Strathspey Estates have resonated with the distinctive calls of 43 male capercaillie, a notable increase from the 25 recorded last year. In the hushed and hopeful world of Scottish conservation, this represents a significant victory—indeed, the estate now accounts for some 46% of the total increase in the 2026 national counts. However, for the keepers and land managers tasked with stewarding this landscape, the news is greeted not with celebration, but with a cautious, watchful eye.
For the uninitiated, the capercaillie is the undisputed monarch of the Scottish glens—a bird of ancient woodland, as wild and demanding as the Caledonian Forest itself. That Seafield & Strathspey supports around a quarter of Scotland’s remaining population is a weighty responsibility. Kinveachy Forest, designated as a Site of Special Scientific Interest (SSSI) for its ancient woodland and a Special Area of Conservation (SAC) for capercaillie, crossbills, and crested tits, is the beating heart of these birds’ survival. The recent rise in lekking males is a testament to the estate’s long-term stewardship, its active habitat management, and its legal predator control. Yet, as estate managers are quick to point out, the gains are as fragile as the birds themselves.
While the spectacle of 43 cocks strutting and sparring at dawn is encouraging, it tells only half the story. The hens, the lifeblood of the population, remain perilously scarce and disproportionately vulnerable. They must survive the gauntlet of nesting season, incubate their eggs, and rear their broods to fledging—a period fraught with danger. The question that hangs over the straths is a sobering one: how long can these gains be maintained when the pressure from predation is relentless?
Predator management on the estate is a finely tuned necessity, a balancing act performed to support both farm tenants—particularly during the vulnerable lambing season—and the ground-nesting birds that share the landscape. Foxes and crows are managed legally by the estate’s gamekeepers, while deer control is employed to encourage woodland regeneration. This latter point is crucial. The estate takes several hundred deer annually, including through guest stalking, which provides vital income, produces quality food, and supports the wider local economy. However, the primary purpose is ecological: to enable the woodland expansion that capercaillie need to thrive. But as one keeper put it poignantly, there is little point in having the ideal habitat if the birds intended to inhabit it are being eaten.
Here lies the crux of the matter, the difficult conversation that Seafield & Strathspey believes the country must be willing to have. While the estate celebrates its successes with protected species—from ospreys and eagles to the recent rise in capercaillie numbers—the impact of other protected predators is becoming impossible to ignore. Pine martens, whose recovery is a conservation success story in its own right, share the capercaillie’s habitat and prey upon their eggs and chicks. Badgers, too, have expanded significantly across farmland, woodlands, and moorland. Their proliferation can be devastating during the breeding season, with birds’ nests destroyed in their search for food.
The statistics are stark. While we celebrate the potential uptick in capercaillie, RSPB figures reveal a 62% decline in curlew, a 63% decline in lapwing, and a 41% decline in oystercatcher. To ignore the role that burgeoning predator populations play in these declines would be wilful negligence.
NatureScot’s own 2020 literature review on badger impacts acknowledged a glaring gap: “there has been relatively little research in Scotland to identify how badger predation and feeding activity are impacting wildlife and agriculture… or how their impacts relate to changes in badger abundance/distribution.” The estate argues that if we are serious about meeting Scottish Government biodiversity targets, we cannot afford to leave such questions unanswered. We must have an honest conversation about the future management of all species in a habitat—including protected predators.
The estate has also viewed the emerging tactic of diversionary feeding with a sceptical eye. While it is a technique used elsewhere to reduce predation risk, they argue it remains unproven over time, particularly given the high resource costs involved. Reliance on this method while capercaillie numbers remain critically low is, in their opinion, a questionable strategy. It has raised a pointed question: if diversionary feeding is now considered necessary, is that not a clear acknowledgement that predation is an issue we have failed to manage adequately?
Seafield and Strathspey is not a nature reserve; it is a working estate that must balance conservation with forestry, farming, sporting tourism, and local employment. It is a business committed to the long-term health of the landscape, the wildlife, and the communities connected to it. The pride in their conservation successes is justifiable, but it is a pride tempered by pragmatism. As the estate managers wisely conclude, they are not in the habit of “counting their chickens before they hatch.”
Like balancing the books, nature requires a balance of its own. The dawn chorus of the capercaillie is a sound to be cherished, but ensuring its endurance requires more than hope—it requires a commitment to hard truths and a balanced approach to the management of all species that share these ancient glens.