Six reasons to love gulls

Gulls are not exactly everyone’s favourite birds. They’re often fairly plain and overlooked, and some of the more piratical ones have taken to violently stealing people’s chips and ice cream.

I must admit there have been days when I’ve cursed them myself, when I’ve spent fruitless hours standing in the freezing cold, scanning thousands of very similar-looking gulls, hopelessly trying to find one of the rarer species.

But there are plenty of reasons to love gulls, and here are six of them.

They readily pose for photos

This cannot be said of most birds I try to take photos of, which often end up being nothing more than an indistinct blur or a distant blob. Herring Gulls and Black-headed Gulls are particularly amenable to posing for pictures. Look at these poseurs.

Herring Gull perched on amusements sign.

This Herring Gull fancies a flutter in the arcade at Filey.

Black-headed Gull, Windermere

This handsome Black-headed Gull in its breeding plumage was happy to pose on a post on the shore of Windermere.

They’re actually quite beautiful after all

Look at these Kittiwakes – such immaculate little gulls, and they would never pinch your chips.

Kittiwakes on Inner Farne

A pair of Kittiwakes on Inner Farne.

The cry of a gull reminds me of the sea

I love being by the sea, and the call of gulls – usually Herring Gulls (yes, they’re the robbing ones, but there are some nice ones, honest) – is immediately evocative of trips to the seaside, digging on the beach and paddling in the sea. And the distinctive, repetitive call of Kittiwakes immediately takes me back to the precariously balanced colonies I’ve seen at Bempton, Filey and Seahouses.

Herring Gull in flight.

A Herring Gull flies overhead, possibly on the look-out for an opportunist snack.

They’re more varied than you might think

Yes, most gulls are some variation of white, grey and black, but the imposing Great Black-backed Gull is a very different beast to the dainty Little Gull, which remains a bogey bird for me. Then there’s the endless variety of plumages, depending on the time of year and age of the bird. Telling the difference is potentially a rewarding challenge – not one I’ve managed to succeed at myself yet.

Great Black-backed Gull, Seahouses.

Great Black-backed Gulls are huge beasts.

They have different characters

Common Gulls seem pretty shy birds that are happy to blend in and not make a fuss, whereas Herring Gulls strut around like they own everywhere and everything.

Herring Gull perched on a sign.

“None shall pass,” says Sentinel Herring Gull.

You can find them everywhere

You don’t have to be by the sea to see gulls. There are large colonies of Black-headed Gulls at inland wetlands, sometimes along with Mediterranean Gulls, and in the winter you can find massive numbers of gulls on rubbish tips or hanging about in fields.

Black-headed Gull, winter plumage.

A Black-headed Gull in its winter plumage takes a bracing dip at Fairburn Ings, Yorkshire.

Advertisements

The bird that started it all

My memories of my second year at junior school are, on the whole, pretty vague. I know I had terrible handwriting, liked making junk models and got told off for a couple of innocuous classroom offences.

But there is one memory that is crystal clear, and that’s the bird that Mrs Douglas, my teacher, pointed out on the school field one day. It was a Redwing.

Photo of Redwings at Rufford Park, Nottinghamshire.

Redwings – the bird that triggered my interest in birds when I was eight.

There was something about that bird that captured my eight-year-old imagination. Maybe it was that distinctive blob of red on its side, or perhaps it was the fact that it had arrived at our school at the end of a journey from another country. Whatever it was, I was hooked.

It was one of those quirks of fate that this particular Redwing popped up when I was in Mrs Douglas’s class, because she was something of an oracle on birds. She was able to tell me what it was and where it had come from (Scandinavia).

One thing I was keen on was drawing – and I began to draw birds. I was prolific. I filled scrapbooks with pictures of birds, which I copied from my new bird book, or from my Granny’s fascinating ‘Birds of the World’ book, which included Birds of Paradise and other strange, exotic species like the Hoatzin. Mrs Douglas seemed to like my bird pictures. She told me my drawing of a House Sparrow was the best work I’d ever done, and it distracted her fleetingly from the inadequacy of my handwriting.

She also introduced me to the Young Ornithologists’ Club (YOC) and before long I had a black and gold badge with a Kestrel on it and was going on YOC trips. There were two of these trips that stand out.

The first was to RSPB Blacktoft Sands. I saw two birds on that trip that I’ve never seen again since – the Bearded Tit and the Bittern. I can’t clearly picture either, but I can remember our guide shrieking with hysterical excitement when the Bittern came into view.

The other trip I remember was to Filey Brigg, where birds like Purple Sandpiper, Great Skua, Turnstone and Sanderling made me see one of my family’s favourite holiday destinations in a different light. It’s still one of my most reliable birding hotspots, and I’ve enjoyed many ‘firsts’ there – Little Auk, Long-tailed Duck, Velvet Scoter and Woodcock, for example.

I would pore over my bird book, memorising the size of different birds and studying the maps that showed where to find them, and whether they were resident, winter or summer visitors, or passage migrants.

When I got into my teens, birding took a back seat to football and other diversions, but my passion for birds, which was triggered by that Redwing at school, would be rekindled in my adult life, creating new memories. I still like to draw birds if I get chance, and my handwriting is still shocking.

Coloured pencil drawing of a Spotted Flycatcher.

One of my more recent bird drawings – a Spotted Flycatcher.


Why birdwatching is good for my mental health

One of the good things to come out of my second bout of depression four years ago was the revelation that going birdwatching could help me in my recovery.

It was October 2011 and I had been signed off work. My mood would inevitably worsen if I was alone at home with my thoughts for too long, so I made sure I got out of the house once a day, even if only to walk to the shop and back.

The combination of fresh air, daylight and exercise seemed to do me good. Taking my binoculars – and sometimes my camera – with me gave me an added purpose.

One of the best pieces of advice I was given during my counselling and GP appointments was to make sure I found time to do something I enjoyed, and birding certainly fell into that category.

Now, if I feel stressed or anxious, or if I can feel my mood darkening – even if I just feel stuck in a rut – I make time to get out birding, and it helps to distract me and give me something positive to do. I find it relaxing but also exciting, because the wonder of birding is that you never know what you will see next. That sense of anticipation – something to look forward to and get excited about – is a feeling that can get lost in the spirit-crushing mire of depression.

Later that autumn, the possibility of seeing something new took me to Filey, on the Yorkshire coast, about an hour’s drive from home. I’d wanted to make the trip earlier, as it’s a great spot for autumn migrants, but I hadn’t felt up to it. When I felt I had enough energy, I set off with the intention of walking along Filey Brigg, a rocky outcrop that juts out into the North Sea. That walk alone was worth the trip, as a fellow birder –one armed with a telescope – pointed out a velvet scoter bobbing on the waves with a group of common scoters. It was a first for me.

Better was to come. I called in for some food at the café in the country park on the clifftop, where the local ornithological group kept a record of its sightings. Fresh up on the blackboard was something that quickened my pulse – a glossy ibis had been seen at Filey Dams nature reserve.

Pleasingly, I arrived there just in time for a cracking view of this elegant and rather exotic bird, and enjoyed watching it for five minutes before it flew off. A frustrated group of birders arrived just after it had gone. I felt a small glow of satisfaction that I had been there and seen it for myself.

I should have stopped there but I was on a roll. I carried on to Flamborough, a renowned rarity hotspot further down the coast. There, I saw nothing, my legs started to feel heavy and I was overcome with tiredness. I’d overdone it (see top tips below).

Here are my top tips for how to approach birding if you’re experiencing depression:

  • A good birding trip is a great way to lift your mood, but it can also be too demanding if you’re not feeling well, so don’t try to do too much. I had a heavy cold while off with depression, but one day heard that common gulls (a bogey species at the time) could easily be seen at a site across town. I dragged myself out, got blown about by a strong, cold wind, joylessly saw the common gulls and wheezed all the way home, feeling thoroughly miserable. It really wasn’t worth it.
  • Try to keep your birding trips short until you feel stronger and more able to try travelling further. I enjoyed some very satisfying and rewarding local birding, and my slower pace actually helped me to see more on familiar patches, such as the discovery of yellow wagtails in a field close to home and some lovely views of yellowhammers and golden plovers.
  • While you’re restricted in what you can manage, enjoy what you can see and hear, rather than worrying about what you might be missing or can’t identify – there’s no point adding to your stress levels. You can learn songs, behaviour and subtleties of plumage that you might never have noticed before if you hadn’t stopped and savoured the moment. Taking time to appreciate the colours of a male chaffinch or the song of a dunnock while you’re walking down the road can be as rewarding as something harder earned.
  • Do some of your birding alone and some with other people whose company you enjoy. Complete solitude isn’t always good for you if you’re suffering from depression. A friend took me out birding to one of our favourite local wetland reserves one weekend and an obliging water rail strolled out close to the hide where we were sitting – literally seconds after I’d mentioned that I’d never seen one – before sloping off into the reeds again. If I’d stayed at home and not made the effort to go out, I wouldn’t have this happy memory to recall.
  • Depression doesn’t have to stop you getting out and about. The combination of exercise, fresh air, a change of scenery and doing something you enjoy means birding can be very beneficial. Keep it simple, do what you feel able to do, and quit while you’re ahead.

What’s your favourite bird?

My favourite bird is the yellowhammer. ‘That’s fascinating, Paul,’ I hear you say.

OK, so birding – or bird watching if you like – is not for everyone, but I reckon even the most hardened non-birder must have a favourite bird. Maybe it’s a cheeky robin singing cheerily from a tree in your garden. Perhaps it’s a penguin that you’ve enjoyed watching while it waddles.

In fact, it’s easier to have a favourite bird when you’re not actually that bothered for them. There are fewer to choose from. 

For me, though, there are lots to choose from, because I’ve been interested in birds since I was eight. It all started with a redwing – a kind of thrush that comes to the UK in the winter from Scandinavia. This particular redwing came to land outside my classroom window. I might never have noticed it had my teacher, Mrs Douglas, not been very keen on birds. But she was very, very keen, and she showed us this special visitor and explained where it had come from. And I was hooked. 

At first, my new-found interest in birds was the perfect foil for my other big interest at the time – drawing. And so I began to draw birds. My drawing was mercifully better than my handwriting so Mrs Douglas at least had one thing to praise me for. The more I looked up new birds to draw, the more I found out and the more I wanted to see and learn about.

I joined the Young Ornithologists Club (YOC) and went on a couple of trips with them, where new and exciting birds came thick and fast. I can still hear our guide at RSPB Blacktoft Sands shrieking hysterically at the sight of a bittern in the reeds – still the only one I’ve ever seen. Family holidays and days out began to include birding opportunities, such as a trip to Loch Garten to see the ospreys, spotting wood warblers and pied flycatchers at Bolton Abbey, being bombarded by terns on the Farne Islands and many other unforgettable experiences.

So what’s all this about yellowhammers, then?

What’s so good about them? What makes them better than, say, redstarts (my second favourite bird)?

There are three main reasons I love yellowhammers:

1) Their colours – you can’t confuse a male yellowhammer with any other yellow bird because its bright yellow head contrasts so beautifully with its chestnut brown back. They’re such a happy-looking bird and raise the spirits just by looking lovely.

2) Their song – I’m not brilliant at recognising birdsong, but I would know a yellowhammer’s song anywhere. It reputedly sounds like ‘A little bit of bread and no cheeeeeeeeeeeese,’ which is a very sensible sentiment to a cheese-hater like me. See, I have something in common with this little bird. Neither of us want any cheese, thanks very much.

3) Nostalgia – I associate yellowhammers with summer walks down a street we call ‘the Country Lane’, where we used to walk Smartie, my Yorkshire terrier. Smartie was a strong-minded sort of chap and he’d be off sniffing deeply unpleasant things in the undergrowth while I’d stop and listen to yellowhammers and cuckoos. Like the cuckoos, I feared yellowhammers had disappeared from the Country Lane until I ventured that way on a day off a few weeks ago. Reaching the end of the lane, I heard that familiar call from a hedge in the field ahead, then spotted that bright yellow head, and everything was right with the world.

It’s a special memory or association that can elevate a particular bird to number one in your list of favourites. So while the redstart, with its fiery orange tail, is undeniably glorious to behold and always a real treat to see, it doesn’t have the same kind of emotional attachment as the yellowhammer. And for all I know, it might like cheese.