Deafeningly squawky. Go all night (and day) no winding requited.
Six days (so far) since they moved to the chimney pots on the top of our building therefore approaching 24/7.
Like dogs - woof woof woof – but worse. (Reeeeeeeeagggghhhurhhhh a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a!!!!! Reeeeeeeeagggghhhurhhhh a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a!!!!! Reeeeeeeeagggghhhurhhhh a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a!!!!!) Sorry about that.
Would make ideal pets. Or pests. Yes, even better pests.
Perhaps I should title this: “Found- seagulls” because maybe they are lost. Maybe they are yours.
“They sound kind of lost”
“They kind of sound lost” says Pete.
“Something is wrong.”
It is still raining in Britain so whenever the sun appears we and everyone in the land take our chances.
The sun peeked out at midday yesterday. It was so beautiful. You forget how gorgeous this kingdom is in the sun. People say Australia is colourful – and it is. There is colour all year round – smoky green gums, blue blue sky, jacaranda trees with trumpets of purple flowers the colour of perfectly rinsed grandmother hair, tall alongside giant flame trees whose ringing red bells light the sky in petals the colour of fire.
And this is just the view next door – the house next door house to my father’s house, the house he bought when I was born. Not bought for me specifically. The whole family moved there, at that time just the five of us, me being the youngest.
Later there was another one. Then another. Then the numbers kept changing. When my father remarried there were two more siblings, fully grown children, meaning not new borns but kids. We all were at that point. Apart from the fully grown adults.
Then the numbers changed again. And then again.
Now my father lives in the house he bought with his loving mate of over thirty years. They eloped when they were only seventy and fifty years old respectively. Just kids.
We hoped they knew what they were doing.
Seems like they did. They are adorable. (And my father is doing really well, thankyou!)
But this is not going to help shift the seagulls.
I was talking about the walk we went on when the sun came out at midday yesterday. It came out at midday and went in again about quarter past.
By then we were already in our walking shoes. This weather has the sun out one minute and back the next: in out, in out, up down, splat! like a Jack-in-the-box. For all we knew it was resting …
for a moment …
to reappear the next.
But it didn’t matter; those fifteen minutes were the realm of the beautiful. The beautiful and the damned beautiful. Sapphires, emeralds, citrines, in the garden, in the sky. A kingdom lit up!
Earthly, unearthly. Camelot.
So we kept going. We walked and walked – up to the Royal Mile, down the Royal Mile. From our place a mile and a half. And we arrived in another part of the realm, a sanctuary of palace and meadows, crags and steeping hills, fairy blossoms, grasses and unknown witches herbs.
But before we did, somewhere along the way, there was a squawking …
I ignored it at first.
And at second.
At third I thought … sounds like …
But there were no seagulls on the Royal Mile. If there were we couldn’t hear them …
… above the cry of the bagpipes.
A lone bagpipe player, impeccable in smart kilt and Scottish finery, played an instrument as old as Celtic history.
Which on this day sounded exactly like a seagull in tune.
Seagulls are not natural muscians. Nor is the bagpipe a naturally melodic instrument – not when it is warming up anyway. Every piper will concede as much.
Yet warm it is mesmeric. A sound that claims fiefdom, language and history. Passionate, ancient, in tune with land and sea.
A cry of war.
But it also sounds like tuneful seagulls. A merry band of vocally talented sea-faring gulls.
“I wish you hadn’t said that thing about the seagulls and the bagpipes” says Pete.
Probably so does the piper.
And now you.
But maybe not the seagulls.
I started this piece yesterday. Last night, in dreamy sleep, I heard seagull squawk.
Just a few squeaks, like car horns in off key. This time it didn’t bother me. (And Pete sleeps through everything.)
But it had a cheering effect. It made me feel at home. Ahh, the seagulls I thought in whispy sleep … calling out to mother nature for reasons known only to her and them …
Between the squeaks I thought I could decipher these lyrics:
Oh you take the high road
And I’ll take the low road
And I’ll be in Scotland afore yee!
I do not think it is within a seagull to bring a tear to the eye in the same way as a bagpipe. But it sounded impassioned to me.
They will be gone at the end of summer …
I am sorry. I am going to have to recall this ad. Our seagulls are not for sale.
But I wish you luck.
In finding your own squealing, screeching, unambiguously unmelodious roof-top pets.