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Irish Examiner
6 days ago
- General
- Irish Examiner
Birds of Ireland: Black-headed gull
Black-headed gull [Faoileán an chaipín | Chroicocephalus ridibundus] A black-headed gull is about 38-44cm long, with a wingspan of 94-105cm. They are a common breeding species found here all year around — every from at sea/on the coast to estuaries, wetland and farmland. Jackdaw-sized, an adult black-headed gull's breeding plumage features a dark chocolate-brown head; white underside; pale grey back/wings, and dark red beak/legs. Adult in non-breeding plumage have a dark spot behind eye; two dark smudge-lines on head; legs/base of beak paler. Black-headed gulls in their first year have dark brown/black on wings; thin black tail band; orange-yellow legs; pale brown-yellow beak/black tip. In flight, you may see an adult black-headed gull's pale grey back/wings; with their white leading edge to outer primaries forming white triangle (above and below) with black trailing edge. And when flying the reduced white on outer primaries; dark trailing edge to secondaries; brown wing coverts; black tail band of a bird in its first year may be visible. Black-headed gull A black-headed gull has a noisy, high-pitched call; includes thin-sounding, drawn-out kaaww; they also engage in softer 'chatter'. Tip of the Week: The timing of a bird's moult can be different for males and females. Most Irish male duck species, for example, the mallard, moult in June and do it so fast that it is flightless for up to four weeks, while the females moult and becomes flightless only after the young are independent, typically in July or August. For the mute swan, it is the exact opposite: the female becomes flightless two or three weeks after the cygnets have hatched while the male starts moulting only when the female regains her full power of flight. Some of our migratory birds moult completely before leaving Ireland; others have a partial moult here, pause it during migration and finish the process on arrival at their summer or wintering grounds, while a few will wait until the migration flight is over. Trauma and shock can cause a bird to lose some of its feathers, which are usually replaced straight away, and disease and starvation can cause a bird to suspend its moult until it recovers or finds a food supply. All these moult-related plumage changes can result in the same bird species looking different at different times of the year and at different ages before adulthood. Don't worry if you find moult complicated and confusing. As you watch the birds around you more and more, you will notice patterns emerging, such as black-headed gulls losing their dark hood in winter and black-tailed Godwits gaining their rusty breeding plumage in spring. You will eventually get to know the moulting patterns of different species which will help you identify some birds and get a greater understanding of the lives of others. Featured in Birds of Ireland: A field guide by Jim Wilson with photographs by Mark Carmody Jim Wilson is a wildlife writer, broadcaster, tour leader, and former chairman of BirdWatch Ireland. He has been involved in the study and conservation of birds in Ireland for more than 45 years, contributing to several major surveys and international projects. Mark Carmody is an award-winning wildlife photographer, has a PhD in biochemistry and works as a European patent attorney.
The Herald Scotland
06-05-2025
- General
- The Herald Scotland
I made a pilgrimage to a wetland paradise - and confessed my 'sins'
It's now that I decide to confess all to Dan Snowdon, RSPB warden at Lochwinnoch and my guide through the woodlands which surround these marshlands. I'm an arch-conservationist now, but feel that if I unburden myself to this young officer then I may finally have peace. Read More Dan agrees to hear my confession and gently absolves me of my sins against nature. 'Sir David Attenborough was also an egg collector,' he tells me, 'so you're in good company. And besides: many other conservationists have made similar journeys.' I've made this 6am pilgrimage to Renfrewshire ahead of the RSPB's International Dawn Chorus weekend at a time of the year when the birdsong morning symphony is at its most intense. Dan can identify almost all the different players in this orchestra, even as they reach a crescendo in the middle of our walk around the fens and water flats. He hands me a pair of binoculars and points out species I'd last seen in my Observer's Book of Birds Eggs, my childhood guide to a career in juvenile, environmental delinquency. He identifies a squadron of little ringed plovers, a wading bird with legs that don't seem long enough to be jouking about waterways like these. They've got a black and white plumage and an orange bill and are just minding their own business in a meadow which is absolutely hoaching with bird species from near and far. 'We've had them here for the last 3-4 years,' says Dan before pointing out a sedge-warbler. I'm keen to respond with some of my sketchy wisdom about the natural world 'You don't see many of them,' I say. 'They're migrants,' says Dan. Which is presumably why I haven't seen many of them. I'm on firmer ground with the Lapwings and tell him that we knew them as 'peewits' on account of their high, piercing calls. He looks at me benignly in the manner of a primary school teacher dealing with an over-eager classroom smartarse. Another childhood memory floats by, of afternoons spent in swampland near Kirkintilloch looking for Oyster-catchers, snipes, curlews and skylarks. This was at a time, you must understand, when our parents were simply relieved that you were out doing nature stuff instead of mooching about in bad company or chasing girls. It was easy for them to overlook our little acts of meadowland mischief, although my mum would express the hope that we were only taking one egg per nest, as though this was a kind of universal protocol to be observed for to preserve wur fragile eco-system. Soon, Dan's pointing out some black-tailed Godwits, large wading birds identifiable by orange-brown breasts which fade to grey during the winter. I'd misheard him and, for a few moments I'm referring to them as 'Godwin' which Dan kindly pretends not to hear, before I google their proper names. I decide from this point on just to shut the f**k up and let him get on with it. And so I stick to asking questions. What's the rarest bird he's seen around here? 'That would be a black-winged stilt. There's only been 12 sightings ever recorded in Scotland. They're quite odd-looking. We've also had a wood sandpiper, which brings the bird-watchers in.' Soon, he picks up the sound of a snipe and I'm marvelling once more at his gift of avian tongues which must turn all of his outdoor walks into musical extravaganzas. He tells me about the social work activities of Lochwinnoch's colony of black-headed gulls. There's a flotilla of them roosting on a raft out on the water and I'm about to be impressed. RSPB Lochwinnoch dawn chorus. Pictured is a Lapwing. (Image: Colin Mearns) 'They've been a game-changer,' says Dan. 'Until 30 years ago we had around 100 pairs of back-headed gulls, but that colony was lost due to habitat changes and egg-collecting. We wanted to get them back because they have such a positive impact on other species. They're an umbrella species which acts as protective cover for other breeding birds. 'They're good at deterring other predators like larger gulls and they'll mob otters. The wildfowl will seek them out and nest next to them because of the extra protection they get. Since they came back here in numbers two years ago, we've seen so many more ducklings running around.' Effectively, they're the bouncers of this little patch, ejecting the hooligans and chibbing the gangsters. What an admirable species they are. And I thrill to what it must be like here when there's some gang warfare out on the water There's a point during our trail-walk when, as your ears become attuned to the birdsong, you become aware of about a dozen different melodies ringing in the trees. Above them all is the incessant refrain of every woodland peregrination: that of the chiffchaff, so called for their distinctive, forest syncopation. You become aware too of the delicate balance that must be maintained here, of cautiously encouraging human visitors while preserving the peace and security of its feathered lieges. 'You want people to come here and engage with wildlife and understand it and appreciate it,' says Dan, 'as that's the only way people will want to support it and learn about its importance and the benefits it can bring to them. That's when we can begin important conversations about eco-system services. 'Obviously though, if there are too many people it will disturb the wildlife. Often, we'll seek to inform people who aren't familiar with the outdoors and don't really know how to behave. Thus, if they're walking along a trail and see a bird fly out from the undergrowth, they might not realise that it's probably just come off a nest and that there are eggs in there. Some people might let their dogs run free, but in doing so they could disturb a nest, meaning its eggs will fail. But as you become familiar with wildlife you'll learn this and maybe just give that little patch a wide berth. 'We can't educate people though, if we don't engage with them. We can't say no one's allowed in. hands off. That might be better for the wildlife in the short term but we're not going to win hearts and minds with that sort of approach.' The RSPB have built a boardwalk out above the water that curls round towards the Grade-A listed ruins of 16th century Peel Tower. There are patches of marsh marigolds glowing on the water and a wee sedge warbler is showing off its singing range amidst the rushes below. The black-headed gulls are reconnoitring the tree-line for any invaders and Dan has caught sight of the year's first swift. This make him happy as Larry and I'm catching the feels too. 'Every little change in a place like this creates a ripple effect,' he says. I think what he's saying is that we need to be alive to opportunities in creating new habitats to keep a place like this dynamic. The big gamers which once policed this land and its food-chain like boar, bison and beavers are no longer here and so a little human agitation can be permitted. Down to my right, a willow warbler is singing away, well … like a linty (if he doesn't mind my saying) and so I pause to listen to the solo concert. But when I stop, so does he. It's as though he's saying 'gonnae just mind your own business and be on your way?' Dan tells me it's not my imagination. 'Songbirds will sense your presence and stop singing until you've moved on.' I'm thrilled that the warblers have an attitude too and won't take any nonsense.
