Low Tides

It was my first low tide count of the year. These counts are carried out throughout the winter months, to try and build a picture of what's happening on the shoreline of our reserve. The fluctuating numbers add up to show us trends in the numbers of shorebirds - these being the oystercatches, the dunlin, the ringed plover and more. 

​But, as is always the case, nothing is just a count. It's also moments, interactions, realisations and observations. The first sanderling I see always make me grin: their busy wee legs race about, busy, busy as they chase their food in front of the waves. This survey, for the first time, I saw one of the sanderling having a wash in the sea. Feathers ruffled, she would splash in the water, then shake off, creating an aura of droplets before using her beak to clean right into the depths of her feathers. Sanderlings are beautifully pale in their winter plumage: white underside with delicately coloured grey wings, they are stunning wee birds. 

​The turnstones are another that I always look out for. They merge in with the seaweed, but their movements give them away. Quick to fly, but quick to settle, noisy in warning, they rake through the seaweed, seeking sandhoppers, worms, flies and molluscs, busy, busy always too. The calm ones are the ringed plover. They stand, poised and determined, frozen in time, watching carefully, before they dart out in a controlled movement. Thus they too seek their food. Elegant and pretty, but there's also something much more controlled in their movements than their more chaotic beach mates. 

​I studied zoology, and one thing we were told again and again was not to anthropomorphise the animals, but I did and still do, and sometimes regret it, but often not. But in this case, it is almost impossible not to see the innate characters shining through as I watch the shore birds: the curlew stalks and then pauses, pondering; a dunlin stays in its tight wee group, loving (or needing) the support of others; and the bar-tailed godwit stalk elegantly, poised and flamboyant all at once. To see the shorebirds makes my heart glad, and my soul sing out. To revisit the survey again after the summer is like greeting old friends and I welcome them back with open arms.

The gulls are always worth a watch. The big black backs, with their calm demeanour, and their sheer size providing them with a majesty. The herring gulls that laugh at you, keen eyes watching for opportunities. The black headed gull, that always seems just that wee bit aloof - stunning through the summer, with their matt black heads, still gorgeous in the winter - however my favourite of all (I really should stop having favourites), is the common gull.

Not so common, but so delicately featured and pretty. It hangs out with whoever else is there, but it really loves to be with it's fellow common gulls. I see them, sleeping in the sand, head tucked under their wing, peacefully letting the day go by. 

​And I wonder what they dream about. Calm seas and plenty of food? Beaches empty of wanderers with binoculars? Flying: dropping, twisting, playing on the wind? What would you dream of if you were a bird? How would you dream? 

PS. This gull was rescued from the roadside: I don't think there had been an actual collision, as it was fine, but it was stuck between the fence and the road so couldn't get away. I lifted it up in my shawl and took it away from the road. It sat a wee moment before returning to the skies - I hope it flies still.