It’s very busy on the sea front at the moment. Not with tourists, most of those have fled for their homes since the weather changed. No, I’m talking about juvenile seagulls. There seems to be particular spots on the beach now designated nursery areas and here large groups of them stand together, occasionally squabbling but otherwise pretty much motionless. Elsewhere in town, sometimes taking to the air but mainly on foot, they waddle around on spindly legs with hunched shoulders, squeaking continually like old rusty gates.
The squeaking seems to be important. Perhaps a hangover from only a few weeks ago when they were fed everything, some still follow their parents around demanding attention, but also, every new adventure seems to involve making a lot of noise in the build up to it actually happening. This is particularly so when one of the young birds attempts a short flight, the uncertainty regarding whether being airborne is actually possible linked to the volume of its keening. Other juveniles have started to wander off on their own to investigate the neighbourhood. Given their only way of grasping the world is using their beaks, this means there’s a lot of nibbling going on. It’s definitely nibbling too, not pecking. A few days ago I saw one of them fascinated by a scrap of black cloth as it was blown about by the wind. Each time the wind lifted the fabric the gull would run after it until the fragment settled, where it would once again be subjected to further delicate probing.
Today I came across another juvenile in a secluded corner next to the aquarium (see photo top right). This particular corner being something of a wind trap, the gull shared the space with a paper bag, among other bits of rubbish, all of which were being blown in circles. Despite none of these things being edible, the young gull was completely absorbed in trying to grab the paper bag every time it flew past. Eventually the gull spotted me photographing it. This unwelcome attention was enough for it to stop and, with a look that was uncannily similar to one you might find on the face of a child caught doing something it wasn’t entirely sure it should be doing, it waddled off sulkily.
A little later on the promenade I spotted another (bottom row, second from left). This one has a really big prize, an entire chocolate-filled crêpe someone had dropped on the pavement. As it attempted to drag this banquet across the asphalt to somewhere more secure, leaving a satisfying brown smear in its wake, a whole flock of adult gulls hovered in the air above. Surprisingly, none of them swooped down to steal the crêpe from it’s new owner (which is what usually happens when food is involved). Perhaps these other birds were nervous due to the amount of people walking past, but it sounded to me from their excited cries, more like there was a lot of approval going on, as if they were keeping an eye on the juvenile in case of trouble, but otherwise leaving it to its reward by way of encouragement. A lesson was in progress.
There has been a lot in the papers lately about a new breed of killer gulls rampaging amok in various seaside resorts, snatching dogs, cats and, for all I know, babies from their prams, as this wave of mutants, having overcome their fear of people, plan to take over the world. Indeed I was hoping I could see some of this action and photograph it as it would have been a great addition to the blog, but despite having spent a lot of time on the seafront this year, all I’ve come across is the usual evidence of a parallel community trying to get by and rear their families, occasionally over stepping the mark if a plate of chips or a prawn sandwich is involved.
I suppose because it’s been the summer, journalists have had to struggle a bit harder to find something to fill their columns, and perhaps this topic is better than spreading rumours that we’re all going to be murdered in our beds by immigrants, or that we’re facing a new communist plot that will destroy the economy, only they seem to be suggesting those things are going to happen too.
Umbrellage 