A Richness to All Things

Whenever I walk in a city, I find it remarkable how few people look up. It is here that it is noticeable, simply because there are so many others to observe but, when you are out in nature, whether in the mountains, the forests, or on the coast, it is often the same. The majority seem to have forgotten to look to the skies, look to the ridgelines, observe the clouds and the movement of the air, or watch the tops of trees.

Our coastlines are locations of flux, change in weather patterns as the ocean hits the land, moisture-laden air colliding with drier, or warm with cool. These lines are where storms can be awe-inspiring, where the waves grasp ever higher, the winds ever stronger, urgent, furious. It is a rich zone for wildlife, whether the fish in the sea, those that feed upon them or the other life present, whether seal or otter or, especially, for birds.

This richness, the bounty of the ocean and the bounty of the land mingling, brings vast flocks of birdlife; some are seasonal, waiting and wading out winter, listening for the call of the north once more, or arriving in the spring for breeding, before heading out to the ocean for winter. Others stay all year round, especially those who survive by eating others, or helpfully cleaning away the dead.

Coastal birds are many and varied. Book after book discuss these, sometimes the focus narrow, sometimes larger. There is much to talk about and there are writers who have created works of beauty focussing on this subject.

I have been lucky enough to have lived in places where birds bring flocks of humans, binoculars and telephoto lenses bristling, sometimes sitting patiently, at others crawling along the floor for a slightly better shot, frantic, fearing the empty battery and the dying of the light.

I have personal favourites amongst our feathered friends, and I have stories, many stories. Perhaps you’d like to hear of the attacks of the skuas—whether the Arctic (Stercorarius parasiticus), known as the parasitic jaegar in North America, or the great (Stercorarius skua), known as the Bonxie in Orkney? Of how, when young, I learnt to walk with a stick held above my head, protection against their attack, always aiming at the highest point, from behind, silently, then smack! It can hurt.

Or I could talk of the golden plover (Pluvialis apricaria), the way their flocks catch the low angle of light in winter, sun highlighting their plumage, dark clouds behind and the reflection of wet sands below creating a swirling skydance, affirming a gasp-inducing memory.

Then there are the gannets (Morus bassanus), known as the Solan goose in Orkney, dartlike, sleek, twirling and falling and plummeting into the ocean, diving and coming back up with a beak full of well-earned silver. Even their plumage looks streamlined, fast. It is entirely possible to lose all sense of time, watching their aerial ballet.

Likewise with the rippling winter murmurations of starlings (Sturnus vulgaris). In some places, these roost in reedbeds or trees, in Caithness, they cloak the cliffs, Siberian accents clear—and this is no exaggeration, I have heard the cries of predators I do not recognise, of owls in the middle of the day, all ‘simply’ starlings, repeating calls they grew up with, far, far away. Those murmurations are favourites of Youtube, smoke-like dances of incredible complexity, with good reason—the peregrines (Falco peregrinus) who also nest on the same cliffs engage in their own evening ritual, night after night, trying to catch latecomers, those who risked moving alone.

There are others, many others—the puffins, the terns, the fulmar, the gulls, the ducks and loons and geese. So many species, all relying on a sliver of land to breed, or wait out winter.

The last house I lived in in Orkney, the one I mention in this true ghost story, was also the house closest to the huge bird city at Mull Head, Deerness. To head out there in spring, stick held above the head, stepping carefully and watching everywhere for eggs or chicks, there would come a moment where the scent of sun-warmed peat, that rich, ancient rot, is suddenly overwhelmed by a thump of ammonia, the rotting seafood scent of the guano of tens of thousands of seabirds brought on gust of sea air. Even knowing it is coming, it is still surprising. The same air brings the screams and calls closer, drowning the constant humming symphony of bees, the combination of sensory overload locking the memory. Mozart drowned by black metal. The perfect moment for a skua attack.

When last I visited Mull Head, those cliffs were comparatively silent. There were still thousands of birds, but many have gone. Either starved as their food source moved north, or relocated somewhere else, perhaps Norway, simply in order to eat. The world—their world, and mine—has changed and this change hit me hard, harder than any skua. I had read about it, I knew it was real, yet to witness it in person was incredibly difficult, my memories laid stripped in front of me, naked and shredded.

Much has been written about that sense which comes with walking into an empty theatre, or a football stadium. It feels odd, unnaturally hushed. Life is still there on the air, waiting to return, we know those spaces will be occupied once more, we know they will resound with art and the roar of a crowd, and our brains struggle with the silence.

To walk near those cliffs and not be overwhelmed was, in itself, overwhelming. It hurt me, a pain in my chest, a tightening of my eyes—we did that, we stripped those rocks of their feather blanket, we plucked the fish away.

There is little I can do about this—little, but not nothing.

I have walked the strandline myself, watching those plovers in the clear clear air, a jewelled snakeskin on the wind, then looking back to the beach, eyes and hands picking up this skull or that. Rafts of desiccated, salt- and wind-preserved puffin carcasses, washed ashore after they starved out at sea, solan geese wrapped in unseen net, cormorant picked clean, their stomach contents of bottle tops, coloured shards, strips of plastic bags, garishly visible.

There is little I can do about this—little, but not nothing.

For I can write and I can share those memories. I can relate what it means to witness these moments, and those which came later, the horror of our heavy footprint.

I sometimes fear I sound like a loop, repeating the same thoughts over and over yet, perhaps, this is a good thing? I have hope, active hope, not static. Words my weapons and armour both. I do not merely hope it will be better, for that never works. We all need to find our own way to fight. A way for the lessons these coastal birds teach us to take hold. For they are demonstrations of what might come, not for some obscure avian species, but for us. We cannot say we have not been warned.

Do you have a favourite coastal bird? Or a favourite bird, wherever you live? Have you noticed changes in the birdlife where you are? Do you remember to look up and, if so, what is the best thing you’ve ever seen by doing so? Have you ever visited teeming seabird cities, with their strong scent and raucous, rambunctious calls?

Once, there were great, full cities above the ground. Places where people could live together as the birds do on our cliffs. They lived side by side and above and below, different tongues sharing news, the joy of a new birth, a union, the clawing tearing of a death. This was possible, back then, before we broke the world.

Once, there were whole buildings full of doctors—real healers, who could work wonders. They had medicines which worked, which kept the rot, the plague, the slow deaths and the fast away. Until they no longer did.

Once, we flew ourselves, crossing land and ocean. We had boats which stretched on and on—you have seen some, wrecked on the shore. We could bring back all types of food, of clothing, of medicine and more. Nothing was not available, everything possible.

Once, some of us were safe to walk alone, day or night. We carried no weapons, we had no armour. Other people would not kill us, take our belongings. Eat us.

Once, the storms were less, the temperature more reliable. The air would not kill you, at all, not just less quickly—at all. Such a wonder.

Once, there was a richness to all things. A wealth. We had time to play, time to make music and art.

Once, we had electricity which could be spread from place to place along cables, bringing power to all. We could speak to one another across oceans.

Once, the rains came with regularity and people called them gentle. It was a time of no water war, no exodus of billions, simply seeking something to drink.

Once, as hard as it might be to believe, people travelled far to sit in the sun. They could even stay out there at midday, in summer—can you believe that?

And then, in breaking our world, we broke ourselves. This was always the irony, always the issue—I wonder if things might have been different, had people understood it was their children they were starving, their grandchildren they were suffocating? The elders say no, those in power knew, yet they cared about other things, their priorities differed. Priorities which make no sense now, and perhaps never did.

Now, I sit here, awaiting the flocks, bolas ready, nets in position, watching the skies for the birds. We have a short time before they arrive, slightly longer before the day becomes too hot for us and we have to go back underground. For the birds, they can handle that, they can cool themselves at a higher temperature. We do not, we cook.

Once, it was said that people watched the birds for the sheer joy of doing so. Now, they are one of the few food sources we can still find.

Imagine that, being able to watch birds, simply for pleasure?

Birds will be better placed when the wet bulb temperatures climb. Those feathered dinosaurs evolved to live—outdoors in the day—in warmer, more humid times. Strangely, this is reassuring. We mammals would come out at night, hiding, perhaps below the ground, or hollows, scented with the rot of plants, in the day. Maybe we will again.

Don’t forget, there is a special offer on all monthly and annual subscriptions, 20% off until the 1st of April, 2024. This will get you access to Ancestral, Wild Empowerment, and my entire archive (which now covers over four years of posts). The first section of Edges & Entries, on doors, is now paywalled and, when I move on from coastlines soon, this section will also be paywalled. I’d love to have everything available, for everyone to read for free, forever, but unfortunately I can’t afford that. If you think my work has value, please consider subscribing.