It’s Britain’s loudest bird – but also one of its most elusive.

You can hear a male bittern from up to three miles away in spring, as he blasts out a foghorn-like boom to attract a mate and mark his territory. But trying to actually clap eyes on one of these herons is an altogether trickier task, as they skulk in reedbeds, perfectly camouflaged by their buff-brown plumage with dark streaks and bars.

Bitterns are thin on the ground, too: they were once extinct in the UK, and there are still only around 20 breeding pairs in Yorkshire. Today I’ve come to one of the few places where you’ve got a chance of seeing one – Yorkshire Wildlife Trust’s North Cave Wetlands reserve near Hull, which celebrated its first-ever bittern breeding success last year.

Spotting one isn’t going to be easy: local birders suggest I should sit in Turret Hide for an hour or two and keep scanning the reedbed. A thermal imaging device can help to locate them, but unfortunately the guy who’s got one isn’t around.

When I arrive at the hide, a photographer says she saw a bittern earlier but didn’t get a clear shot. I start scouring the reedbed through binoculars and prepare for a long wait.

There are a few distractions – oystercatchers and shelduck on Island Lake, a pair of common buzzards soaring overhead, rabbits chasing each other around a scrubby field edge. Other birdwatchers come and go, focusing telephoto lenses, telescopes and binoculars on the reedbed, but the bittern stays out of sight.

After an hour and a half of sitting in one place and concentrating on the reedbed, I need to stretch my legs with a walk round the reserve’s perimeter path – and I’m promptly mugged by some of North Cave’s most appealing residents. 

The robins here are among the friendliest I see anywhere, and I soon find myself approached by little, red-breasted performers adopting photogenic poses and telling me it’s time for their close-up. Their bold, bright-eyed charm comes as a welcome relief after my fruitless stint of bittern-searching.

Time to return to my lookout post in Turret Hide. It’s early afternoon, and I’m the only person in here. I train my binoculars on the reeds as they sway in the breeze. 

What’s that? 

I glimpse a shape, deep in the reedbed, about 20 or 30 metres from where I’m sitting. I lose it for a few seconds when I lower my binoculars and pick up my camera. But then it moves slightly, and I realise with a thrill – it’s a bittern! 

This most elusive of birds is sitting among the dense reeds and preening itself with its long, sharp bill.

My next challenge is to try to get a decent picture. Photographing a reed-coloured bird, hunkered down among swaying reeds, proves somewhat difficult. I’m desperately hoping the bittern will give me a clearer shot by wading out to the water’s edge in search of fish or frogs – but it stays resolutely in the same hiding place.

I watch, spellbound, for 30 minutes, as the bird preens and occasionally stretches its long neck to peer through the reeds. My photo (above) may not be quite what I wanted, but it does show how well the bittern blends in with the surrounding reeds.

The only tiny splash of colour is a pale blue patch between the eye and the base of the bill. Known as the lores, it identifies this particular bittern as a male who’s ready for the breeding season, although sadly, he isn’t booming today.

Eventually, I take my eyes off the bird so I can have a quick look at a few of my (mainly blurry) images. When I focus on the same spot again, I can’t see the bittern. 

I’m sure I would have noticed if it had flown off: a bittern in flight is an obtrusive, slow-flapping sight. 

A group of birdwatchers comes into the hide. Telescopes, binoculars and long lenses are trained on the reedbed. We’re looking for a big bird in a small area – but none of us can spot the bittern.

It’s simply melted away into the reeds.