Afew weeks ago, a young bird fledged somewhere in the high Arctic – perhaps Canada, Greenland or Svalbard – and began its long, slow journey southwards, to spend the winter in the South Atlantic Ocean. On the way, it was caught up in Storm Lilian, and drifted towards the west coast of England. That explains how I caught up with this juvenile Sabine’s gull, happily feeding on a small, shallow pool alongside the Huntspill sea wall in Somerset, and watched by an appreciative audience of birders standing just a few metres away. This is one of the world’s most delicate and attractive gulls. It was named after Sir Edward Sabine, an Anglo-Irish astronomer, ornithologist and explorer, who discovered the species just over two centuries ago off western Greenland. This juvenile was strikingly different from the usual black-headed gulls nearby: with scalloped edges to its feathers, bubblegum-pink legs and feet, and a rather pigeon-like gait. It had almost certainly never seen a human being before – hence its tameness. Seemingly oblivious to our presence, it foot-paddled for aquatic invertebrates, occasionally flying a short distance to reveal its striking black, white and grey wing pattern. This was a memorable sight, not least because it was the 150th species I have seen on my coastal patch, and also marked my thousandth column on birds and the weather since I first began writing for the Guardian more than 30 years ago.