Former TD Conor Lenihan was out walking near Dublin’s Lansdowne Road one night a while back when his attention was drawn to a flock of what looked like seagulls overhead.
But the funny thing, he told me, is that they seemed to be lit from beneath, as if by lights attached to their legs. “An orangey light,” he specified.
Wondering if he was seeing things, he rang a neighbour who confirmed that, yes, he too had witnessed something similar on occasion, but with swans. In that case, the light was white. So, curious as to the reason for this strange phenomenon, Conor did what anyone would do: he contacted the Irishman’s Diary.
Not having noticed any up-lit seagulls or swans itself, however, the Diary had to consult Birdwatch Ireland. A spokeswoman said she was unaware of any actual lights on birds. But she did point out that whereas swans are often fitted with yellow tags to track their movements, seagull tags are red.
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That might explain the different colours of the “lights”, perhaps the temporary result of some illumination below? “But it wasn’t just when they were overhead – it continued well into the distance,” Conor told me. They were flying “towards the city centre”, he added.
Like many Dublin residents, I have long been slightly paranoid about seagulls and would not be surprised if they’re running night drills for an all-out attack on the civilian population.
One day last month, walking along Exchequer Street, I watched in awe as one of these magnificent outlaws flew in from behind over the heads of two young women and, swooping, relieved one of them of the pizza slice she’d been about to eat, leaving nothing in her mouth but a shriek. It was a breathtakingly daring raid, brilliantly executed.
[ For the Birds – Frank McNally on an encounter with Dublin’s Pigeon ManOpens in new window ]
On another recent occasion, near where I live, I noticed someone – possibly a local resident who doesn’t pay for refuse collection – had stuffed a bag full of rubbish into a streetside bin. It was too big to fit, so was wedged half in, half out. And as I passed on the way to the shops, a seagull perched on top of the bin, pecking the bag apart.
When I returned, the bird had vanished. But the bag’s contents lay scattered all over the footpath, including envelopes, with a name and (local) address on them. One was from the Revenue Commissioners.
An hour later, the bag was gone and the footpath pristine. Either the street sweepers had just visited, or the bag owner had been embarrassed into an emergency cover-up. There having been no sign of food waste among the contents, I couldn’t help wondering whether the seagull had scattered the envelopes out of pure badness or because the owner had fallen behind with protection payments.
But then, this past week, walking the same streets, I have found myself asking: where are all the seagulls gone? Their absence, suddenly, is striking. Near Christ Church the other night, for example, I saw a whole group of rubbish bags scattered. One had contained chicken wings, now strewn all over the footpath.
The usual suspects would have been white, feathered, and making squawking noises at the scene of the crime as they competed for the spoils. Not this time, though. There was no seagull anywhere in the vicinity.
I’ve since been reminded that, in December, Dublin City Council ended a decade-long derogation whereby certain streets were excused from a ban on using plastic bags for waste.
These were mostly in areas of high restaurant density, including greater Grafton Street, Stephen’s Green, and Temple Bar. And sure enough, although you still see bags in these places, there are far fewer than before, a fact the gulls must have noticed before I did.
As for the Christ Church atrocity, the birds were clearly innocent. That may instead have been the work of non-feathered scavengers, searching for the latter-day hard currency of plastic bottles.
A friend in Alicante, an exiled Dubliner, has been struck by the gentility of seagulls there. She watched a group recently standing around some food scraps, all apparently reluctant to tuck in.
“No no – you first,” they seemed to be telling each other; “I couldn’t possibly. I ate earlier – I’m still stuffed.” She also noticed they look much sleeker than Dublin gulls, some of which have chests the size of turkeys.
Perhaps Alicante’s are a different subspecies. Or maybe the more aggressive Dublin ones are just a reflection of the humans they share space with, and of our dog-eat-dog (excuse the mixed animal metaphor) capitalist system.
I’m told that most gull species are migratory, moving to warmer climes in winter. Exceptions include those in Ireland, where weather is mild and food plentiful. Our gulls tend to be permanent residents. Even so, I wouldn’t be surprised if, between the plastic bags crackdown and the endless rain, some of Dublin’s have just bailed out, and are now en route to the Costa Blanca.
