On Tailwinds, Tiny Kitchen Visitors And Reluctant Compassion

Autumn had clearly begun as it meant to go on. The darkness lingered, the rain was relentless, and the wind had gone from “cheeky breeze” to “has anyone seen my wheelie bin?” The kind of wind that flips garden furniture, unseats hats, and turns all who dare face it into unwilling mimes.

The birds were not particularly pleased with the weather either. Watching them navigate gale-force winds is like watching someone try to walk on a bouncy castle after a few pints. Elegant? No. Hilarious? Absolutely.

Crows wobble in sideways like they’ve forgotten how aerodynamics work, then spend several minutes trying to line up a landing like drunk hovercraft. Magpies attempt a stylish landing, catch a crosswind, and spiral away like feathered Catherine wheels towards the shrubbery. Even the gulls, normally obnoxiously confident, are reduced to face planting in the car park with a level of drama usually reserved for Eurovision voting rounds.

Eventually, they give up and take to waiting it out, scattered across roofs, fences, and treetops, resigned to this betrayal by the skies.

But when the wind drops?

Then it’s on.

The air fills with chaos and cackling. Birds using the remaining gusts like surfboards, wheeling around in dizzy, giddy loops. Not flying for food. Not flying for purpose. Flying for joy. And isn’t that the most glorious thing? Just movement. Just wind. Just wings.

Just because they can.

Rain is a whole different issue. Crows? Gone. Vanished. Not a feather in sight. No one hates getting wet more than a crow. They will absolutely sit under a hedge sulking for three hours just to avoid damp tail feathers. Magpies? Also missing. I assume they’ve got some kind of velvet-lined hideaway, perhaps with a decanter of sherry and a copy of GQ. No proof. Just vibes.

Gulls and pigeons, however, are built different. Rain? Love it. Live in it. Thrive in it. Gulls stalk through the downpour like disgruntled bin inspectors on a mission. Pigeons keep their heads down and peck away at puddles with the grim focus of accountants during tax season. No drama. No flair. Just soggy persistence.

I call it the Feather Forecast: • Crows: Cancelled. • Magpies: AWOL. Possibly sipping brandy. • Gulls: Loud and wet. • Pigeons: Forgot it was raining.

…………….

Elsewhere, diplomatic relations are blossoming. Tom’s friend has made contact with a new species. Not one of the usual suspects. Not a pigeon, not a crow, not even a rogue jackdaw.

A starling.

It began modestly: an open kitchen window and a few innocent snacks left nearby. And now? The starling just… walks in. Flutters onto the worktop like he owns the place, pokes about for a suitable morsel, and occasionally deigns to accept snacks from an outstretched hand. Always with one eye on the window, just in case. It’s a deeply transactional friendship. No eye contact. No affection. Just crisp fragments, a shared understanding of the arrangement, and a mutual respect for the exit strategy.

Needless to say, I’m furious with envy.

Where’s my kitchen starling? I’ve got snacks! I’ve got a welcoming energy! I even open my window and whistle like a weird Snow White tribute act. Nothing. Not so much as a feathered glance.

I do, however, have a thing going with the pub starlings. At the back of the beer garden, if I crush up a packet of ready salted crisps just so, they descend like snack-seeking missiles. And if I’m very still, if I become one with the bench, they’ll land right on my hand. It’s not tender. There’s no chirrup of gratitude. It’s a scene of chaotic diplomacy. Little birds shoving each other mid-bite, jostling for the most golden shards. One always tries to take a crisp that’s literally in another’s beak, like a toddler with no grasp of property law. Tiny feet. Sharp eyes. Zero respect for personal space. It’s like hosting a dinner party where all the guests are petty, fast, and slightly drunk.

But it makes me laugh. Every time.

…………..

There’s been no sign of gulls for a couple of weeks. Naturally, I assumed I was safe. Lulled into a false sense of security, I returned to placing food on the wall. As autumn was well underway I bought monkey nuts, as they’re very good for storing. Out they went one afternoon, alongside a fresh batch of CrowBarz. I looked around. Not a bird to be seen. Not a squawk. Not a flutter.

Now, the top of the wall isn’t entirely flat. I had learned this the hard way when I’d put food out in the early day and was promptly showered with mini fat balls. A surprise suet hailstorm. Lesson learned: mini fat splats are the order of the day from now on. So I wasn’t certain whether the nuts would stay put. I placed everything into a clear plastic pot to be on the safe side.

This was a mistake.

Crow eventually arrived. Saw the setup. Had a full-blown tactical hesitation. New food and new container? Too many variables. He hopped around the car park like he was defusing a bomb. Torn between hunger and suspicion. If it smells like peanuts, but looks like a trap, you wait until someone else tries it first. So I went back out and tipped the whole lot out onto the wall. Only a few peanuts escaped. I left them. I know the rules.

Did he eat? Of course not.

Two other crows landed on the wall. I have no idea where they came from. The monkey nuts went first. Crow, still nervy, watched the elders. Took notes. Mimicked. Peanuts in beak, they flew to a nearby rooftop to crack them open like tiny flying locksmiths.

And then came back for more. Twice.

Oi, lads and lasses, I slaved for hours making those protein bars. At great expense, I might add. You’re telling me you prefer monkey nuts?!

Enter: gull.

Not Karen, but Karen 2.0, the air-raid siren. Young, moulty, and already developing a screech that could cut glass. He enjoyed the CrowBarz immensely. I assume. He didn’t exactly savour them. More inhaled, hoovered, removed from existence. Then he turned to the monkey nuts. No cracking, no pecking. Just… swallowed whole. Repeatedly, until nothing remained.

Legend has it that a seagull once ate a pigeon, whole, feathers beak and all. I can’t vouch for the accuracy of that, but I have personally witnessed gulls eating whole chicken legs, bones and all. It wasn’t elegant. Some of them fought back. But they all went down eventually. Which begs the question: has anyone ever tested the stomach acid of a gull? I’m fairly sure it’s one of the strongest solvents known to science.

Back on the wall, things escalated. Karen Jr. was joined by a fresh fledgling - all brown feathers and baffled innocence. The crows, rightly offended, left. The food was gone and there was no point topping it up while the Gull Mafia was lurking. Instead, I opened the side sash window and lobbed a handful of nuts out onto the gravel path beside the flats. Hidden from the wall. Out of view.

The crows clocked it instantly.

From over 200 metres away.

From a rooftop with no line of sight to the drop zone.

They were there before the nuts even landed. I knew their eyesight was good. I didn’t realise it bordered on supernatural. Crows have extraordinarily good visual awareness and are ridiculously good at noticing movement. How they spotted a handful of airborne peanuts from there, I have absolutely no idea.

Basically, they’re living bird-drones with threat detection, predictive targeting, and a built-in food radar.

All food consumed, Karen Jr. flew off to the north while the crows departed to the west, leaving only the fledgling gull. Alone. Pecking at subatomic-sized protein bar crumbs with the forlorn hope of satisfaction.

Suddenly it looked less like a member of the Gull Mafia and more like a baffled youngster who’d been left behind. Bullied by everyone bigger, louder, or faster. Which, unfortunately, was everyone.

I felt a wave of pity for it.

So I opened the window and lobbed a single protein splat in its direction.

I know I’m going to regret that.