On The Price Of Compassion And Neighbourly Consideration

The rain has finally stopped.

Months of relentless ‘wet and windy’ have given way to something far more manageable: ‘overcast and breezy’. Not exactly a tropical paradise, but at this point, I’ll take it. The birds seem to agree.

Walking up Station Road on my way to work, on a cold mid-October morning, I heard them before I saw them. Crow calls. Plural. I scanned the roofs in the general direction of the noise, and there they were, perched along the gutters and chimney pots above the busy street. I’d never seen them here before. It’s not a quiet spot: taxis, buses, people queueing for trains or loitering at bus stops like extras in a very British movie (damp and, er, subdued?). A steady stream of traffic, two lanes wide, with no patience and even less soul.

But there they were. Crows. In a row. Watching.

A thought occurred - could I feed them here? But I had nothing on me. No peanuts, no fat balls, no gourmet protein nuggets. And even if I had, I wasn’t about to start flinging treats into traffic, under the judgmental gaze of half the town. There’s eccentric, and then there’s sectionable.

Still, the opportunity was too good to miss. Once inside work, I sacrificed part of my lunch. A Scotch egg. Noble, round, and slightly sweaty from having lived in clingfilm for a couple of hours this morning. I chopped it up and slipped out to the back courtyard.

These crows don’t know me. They have no idea what my clucks and tocks mean. So I did what any rational adult would do: I opened YouTube and played crow call videos at full volume into the alleyway. A deeply normal thing to do during work hours. Offerings made, I ducked back inside and gave it 15 minutes before sneaking a peek. The food? Gone. A single crow remained on the rooftop above, calmly cleaning his beak like he’d just finished brunch at a five-star restaurant. Success! Unexpected and suspiciously easy…

Naturally, I panicked and flung out some cottage cheese, blueberries, and crushed walnuts. I don’t need to eat, right? And if I do get hungry there’s usually some custard creams in the kitchen. As I retreated, I caught the flicker of black wings descending. I now have work crows. Not a problem, I’ll just make double batches of CrowBarz in the evenings. Who needs free time, eh?

Back home later that day, the regulars were waiting. Not just nearby. Waiting. The moment my car pulled into the car park, they started cawing to announce my return. Crows flew in from all directions and perched on the lampposts like a chorus of tiny spies. Twitching excitedly. Plotting. Possibly judging my parking. Okay, so they don’t just know my face. I’m starting to suspect they recognise my car too.

Wait…have they also figured out where I work? Hmm.

After a quick shower and uniform switch-out, I emerged, towel on head, dressing gown cinched tightly like it contained national secrets (it didn’t – just a wobbly belly and some deep-seated shame). They were still there. I offered peanuts and mini fat balls. They landed before I’d even turned around to leave. Trust is building. Either that or they’ve spotted some gulls in the distance and decided to get in there quick.

Yep. Enter the gulls. An older juvenile who had been taking advantage of my pity meals to grow big and strong, and now refused to leave. The price I paid for being nice. Kind of expected. Not a big shock. But close behind him came four freshly fledged screech goblins. He appeared to be mentoring them. Great.

For the first time, the crows fought back. Peanuts, it turns out, are sacred. The god-tier snack. The line in the gravelled sand. The crows didn’t brawl, that’s not their style. Instead, they harassed. Tactical peck passes. Precision bombing runs.

One faked out, the other flanked. One attacked at weird angles, the other pecked. A constant, unpredictable, aerial bombardment. The gulls cracked. Too much flapping. Too much pressure. They flounced off, beaks in the air, like badly behaved dinner guests who’ve just been told the vol-au-vents are all gone. But they’d got what they came for. The damage was done. The crows hadn’t eaten much. They lingered, looking bereft. Looking hungry. Looking in my direction. With a sigh, I went back out with tiny cubes of cheese and more peanuts. I put them at the far end of the wall, right beside the garage roofs. Out of sight. As hoped, the gulls didn’t spot it but the crows did. Unfortunately, so did the neighbours, who obviously felt that the War of the Crowses was taking place too near the vehicles. Fair. Gulls poop a lot.

There was pointing. Frowning. Glaring. One woman gave me the exact same look I once gave a guy who tried to explain cryptocurrency to me using Pokémon metaphors.

Awkward.

Look, I’ve invested literal months building trust with these birds. I don’t even know my neighbours’ names. So, no. I’m not stopping. But I might need to be a bit more strategic. The wall, while iconic, is very much in view of everyone and everything. Especially car roofs. Especially when large gulls are involved.

Perhaps it was time to resurrect an idea I once discarded as too elaborate. Too whimsical. Not a wall. Not a plank. Not even a buffet.

Crowchella.

Multiple stages. Varied menus. A complex site layout of offerings beneath the tree canopies.

No gulls allowed.