The other morning while I was out on my regular morning walk, in the relative quiet as the sun started to rise, a screeching noise broke through the peace.
Where I live is only a few miles from the coast but we don’t see many gulls nearby. They prefer to stay around the local marina (or docks as they used to be) preying on the remains of takeaways from MacDonald’s.
There was a group of four of them rising up into the sky probably retreating from some mischievous exploits.
Before I had even seen them the noise took me to another place and another time. It wasn’t anywhere specific; it was the combination of a number of different memories.
There were days walking amongst the chalk caves and pools of Flamborough Head. It’s a place of cliffs, clear seas and stories of pirates.
There were days walking along the tops of the cliffs a bit further up the coast at Bempton where the Gannets and Fulmars add to the song.
It was the noise of family holidays relaxing between bouts of body-boarding on Whitecross Bay on Cornwall.
There were memories of long beach walks on the nearby Lytham coastline.
Then there the recollections of fish and chips on the beach just outside Oban watching the CalMac make its evening rounds.
To many the seagull is a bit of a pest and I must admit that I can understand that point of view. The other morning though they brought a pleasurable cascade of memories, memories that are treasured blessings.