When You Go to See Seals, and See Seabirds Instead
Or: Making the Best of a Trip
The savage wind whips my hair into my face before I've even climbed out of the car. The cold air smells of salt and thunder, promising the storm currently looming on the horizon. The thick, angry clouds squat out at sea, and the waves battering the shoreline feel like the harbingers of the bad weather to come. The whole scene proves folklore to be correct, with a whole raft of superstitions dedicated to the belief that seeing this or that seabird coming into shore meant a storm was on its way. The gulls still wheel and cry overhead, but they don't venture beyond the shore. Are they staying away from the impending inclement weather, or are they drawn by the discarded cartons of chips and rubbish bins crammed to almost bursting? It's hard to say.
Orange plastic barriers block the footpath towards the causeway. People skirt around them, determined to walk the several hundred yards to the tiny island until they spot the sign at the top of the causeway. It seems that while the causeway is open, the island itself is not, and there is no way to reach the viewing area at the back of the knot of buildings to see the grey seals that lounge on the rocks. The lighthouse that normally jabs out of the island like an accusing finger is currently swathed in scaffolding while it undergoes a new paint job.
Not being able to see the seals is disappointing, but the rocks that line the causeway offer other sights for those who linger to see them, instead of stomping back to the car in a fit of pique. A handful of oystercatchers run around on the rocks, stabbing their brilliant red beaks into the slippery seaweed. A congregation of golden plovers lines the rocks nearest the water line, facing out to see as if they're waiting for something only they know is coming. Meanwhile, a deceit of lapwings loiters on the rocks, staying low and taking shelter among the rock pools. It seems their collective noun came about because people once considered lapwings treacherous. The reason why is lost to time.
The oystercatcher is perhaps the star of the show, its beak making it easy to spot among the rocks. Its black-and-white plumage once gave it the name of 'sea-pie' until the late eighteenth century, despite its lack of relation to the more famous magpie. Its current name is already a misnomer since oystercatchers are far more likely to feed on cockles and mussels. An adult oystercatcher can even feast on 500 cockles every day, making their populations vulnerable if cockle numbers drop. The UK boasts 95,500 breeding pairs of oystercatchers, and the species is a year-round resident here in the north east.
A gull swoops low and an oystercatcher runs to avoid it. The gull poses no threat to the wading bird, but an Irish folk tale might explain why there is no love lost between these species. At one point in time, the oystercatcher had webbed feet, while the gull did not. The gull asked to borrow them one day, and the oystercatcher agreed, as long as they got them back after a day. The kind bird found itself duped when the gull never returned. This also apparently explains why the birds never wade into the water, and remain on the water's edge, chiselling limpets from the rocks.
Something startles the golden plovers and they take to the wing, rising in a flock in greater numbers than expected. They put on a display for those walkers who have decided to face the cold air and biting wind to watch the birds. Wheeling this way and that, they resemble huge starlings, their murmuration leading away from the water, and further inland. Perhaps they have the right idea, and it's time to return to the car. Go, go, sweet golden plovers, find your port before the storm.