I was going to caption the image “scabby”, but decided that this would be unfair: it’s not the gull’s fault that I caught it mid-moult into its breeding plumage, and if we’re talking complexions, mine is nothing to write home about these days either. And actually, I rather like the look of those white feathers on its face, as they’re being pushed out by the emerging dark brown ones – sort of frondy, as if it has tiny sea anemones clinging to it, or… something. No, that doesn’t help, does it? I don’t feel that I’m selling this poor gull very well.
Back to basic facts, then. The breeding population of Black-headed Gulls in the UK is estimated at around 140,000 pairs, and is thought to be stable. Native British birds are mainly resident here year-round, but in winter we also get a huge influx of migrant Black-heads from Iceland, northern Europe and Russia, swelling the population to over two million birds. There’s currently a slight downward trend in this winter immigration, possibly because winters are becoming less harsh in the gulls’ home territories.
Black-headed Gulls breed in colonies in a wide range of coastal and inland, natural and man-made wetlands. They usually nest on the ground, between April and July, producing a single brood of two or three eggs. Incubation lasts for nearly a month, and after hatching the chicks remain in the nest for a further ten days or so. They then stay nearby, and the parents continue to feed them, until they fledge at around five weeks of age. By July the breeding colonies will be breaking up, with northern migrants heading south to their wintering grounds and resident birds spreading out in search of better feeding opportunities.
In this country breeding colonies are most likely to be found in estuaries, along coastal shores, or on islands in rivers, lakes and flooded gravel pits. In winter though, Black-headed Gulls can turn up almost anywhere, and there are usually a good number on the river and canal at Stratford. I’ve noticed this number decreasing recently, as adults head back to their breeding territories, and today I only spotted two adults – the other one further into its breeding plumage than this, and therefore less “interesting” to look at – and one rather lonely-looking first summer bird, which won’t breed this year.
If you’ve made it this far, I think you deserve a bonus fun fact. The Black-headed Gull’s binomial is Chroicocephalus ridibundus, which describes a laughing thing with a head that gets coloured: chroicocephalus comes from the Greek root khroizo – ‘to colour’ – and kephale – ‘head’ – while ridibundus is the Latin word for ‘laughing’. I dare say you’ve already spotted that the coloured head here isn’t actually black at all, but a deep greyish brown (it’s the larger and much less common Mediterranean Gull that has a properly black hood in the breeding season), and if I was doing the naming it would be called the Chocolate-headed Laughing Gull. Which is clearly better – I think that even the kind of people who shudder dramatically and go, “Eeugh – gulls. Yuk!” might think twice about dissing a Chocolate-headed Laughing Gull.
Oh, and since we’re on bonus fun facts, here’s another: the Black-headed Gull is the official bird of Tokyo.
And finally, if you can’t look at a wild thing without wondering what it tastes like, you can buy Black-headed Gull eggs for a brief season of about a month every year. Allegedly, they’re utterly delicious – though there’s something about the words “subtle lingering aftertaste” that makes me slightly queasy. And if the price alone doesn’t put you off (currently £9 per egg), I suggest you sit and read Belinda Bauer’s The Impossible Thing for a while, until your appetite for sea bird eggs goes away completely.
R: L2, C6, D8.
