Gulls vs Corvids

When I first came to look at the apartment, the building manager had the terrace cleaned. “The gulls,” she said. “You know how they are.”

I knew. In my previous apartment, we spent the first summer completely unable to use the terrace as a pair of nesting gulls aggressively defended their inner-city home. I would not, I decided, make the same mistake here. My new terrace led onto the roof; I made a point of pacing around it in a sort of territorial “I live here now.” When the snow melted, I swept away the remnants of nests-gone-by.

I befriended the crows, feeding them peanuts in a spot that the gulls couldn’t reach. I encouraged them to claim the roof as their own. It seemed to be working. The crows began to watch for my company. Smaller jackdaws appeared out of nowhere and also helped themselves to the peanuts. A larger crow, which I called Grandpa, took to picking up all the peanuts in a hurry and taking them to a safer spot.

When I came home from a two-week trip to Germany, I heard the crows cawing from the trees, followed by Grandpa appearing at the feeding spot to see what I had brought him.

I also found a polished flat stone in the planter, which I suspected was a gift from the crows. Unfortunately, it appeared to be in return for the luscious tulip buds I had apparently left out for them as a special treat.

But as spring took hold, a pair of gulls returned to the roof and the corvids retreated. They were, it seemed, fair-weather feathered friends. The territory was immediately ceded to the gulls.

It was up to me. Every day I shoo’d the pair away from the roof, hoping to convince them that this was not a good place to raise children. Every day they returned, glaring at me defiantly. They had probably been nesting there every spring for years while the apartment was vacant. Who the hell was I to tell them that the roof belonged to me now?

They built a nest. I swept it away. According to Estonian wildlife protection rules, I was free to remove the nest until they laid an egg, at which point I had to concede the fight. They built another nest. I swept it away. The following morning the worst nest yet had appeared. It looked like it had been designed by pigeons and then gone through a windstorm. I got out my broom, shaking my head at the pair. “You should go somewhere else,” I told them. “Start a new life.” I swept it away. Really, I was doing them a favour.

They responded swiftly, building a nest on my side of the roof, near the terrace. It was a clear escalation. I swept it away but the following morning, when they built the nest back in the far corner, I let it be.

The following day I went out to take a look. One of the gulls was sitting on the nest. Next to the nest, on the edge of the bundle of moss and twigs, was an egg. The gull did not seem to notice. The egg sat there, alone and undefended.

The jackdaws came for a closer look. They watched the gulls and quickly concluded that if the gulls didn’t want it, neither did they. The egg rolled around the roof until it disappeared in a storm.

Soon a new egg appeared, this one properly in the nest, and the gulls took turns sitting on it. I bought a pair of cheap binoculars and kept watch from my living room.

Then, I saw one of the gulls shifting around on the nest, as if it couldn’t get comfortable. I got out the binoculars, holding my breath. A small ball of fluff wriggled its head above the edge of the nest. We had had a baby!

It was peaceful, at least at first. The gulls didn’t mind me on the roof, even allowing me to get close enough to take a photo or two.

But then the hatchling decided that its little corner of the world was not enough; there was a whole big roof to explore. As it darted back and forth, the parents became nervous. Soon, my presence was no longer tolerated. Still, I had the terrace, which the hatchling had not yet discovered. Truth was, I didn’t mind. I didn’t really need the roof. I was starting to feel positively broody. I stayed on my side of the planter.

One morning, the hatchling was missing. I scoured the roof with my binoculars. Nothing. No hatchling, no adults. An empty roof. My heart fell. Had the corvids got it after all?

I walked out onto the terrace towards the planter, looking out. As I approached, a gull appeared out of nowhere and dive-bombed me. As I scurried back to cover, I saw the hatchling running to its side of the roof. It had been on the other side of the planter, no more than half a metre from me.

That was the final straw. The gulls decided I clearly should no longer be allowed on the terrace and began to cluck and shriek at me as soon as I walked out of the apartment. This lasted a week, until the building manager phoned me to say that some workmen needed access to the roof, to work on the building’s electric sign. “They are welcome to it but I think there will be problems with the gulls. There’s a hatchling on the roof.”

To my surprise, they came anyway: two men, one older and experienced, the other younger and given the job of carrying the tools back and forth and using his rudimentary English on me.

I opened the terrace door and waved the men through. Then I sat on the sofa to watch the carnage. A lone gull launched itself at them, screeching for its partner. The young man ducked and covered his head. The older one walked to the electric sign as if nothing was happening.

It worked. The gull backed off and watched. Its partner showed up soon after and flew at them. The younger man ducked and raised an arm to wave them away. The older man said something gruffly. The younger one knelt next to him, twitching slightly.

The two men worked out there for an hour; every time the younger man looked around, the gulls attacked. If he ignored them, they retreated and mewed warningly from the opposite rail. I finally understood what I was doing wrong. The old man refused to interact with the gulls at all. They accepted this as normal: whatever it was that he wanted, it wasn’t to eat their hatchling.

Meanwhile, I’d been so careful to look for the hatchling and staring straight at gulls. Clearly suspicious behaviour.

After the men left, I went out to the terrace and sat at the table without looking at the roof. There was one nervous alarm call and then silence. By the following day, I was allowed on both sides of the planter again, as long as I didn’t look at them.

The amusement value of having a gull’s nest on my roof was much greater than I had ever suspected. It was like having a family sitcom right outside my window. But somehow, I didn’t really think it was worth writing about.

Until yesterday.

The day started normally enough: I drank my coffee on the terrace and the gulls wandered about the rooftop, enjoying the summer sun. I had just retreated inside to work at my desk when I heard a loud screech. I stood up to see a jackdaw plunging towards the roof. The sky erupted in a cacophony. I grabbed my phone and dashed back to the terrace. The roof was a war zone.

The gulls dove and spun and the jackdaws swooped away, regrouping in the air and returning for another assault.

The hatchling scurried over to my side of the roof, hesitating for just a moment before hopping onto the wood of the terrace. I took a video of the fight, wondering if I should be wearing body armour with press written on it. Then I went inside, curious where the hatchling had ended up. As I sat down at my desk, the hatchling came over and watched me.

“Hi,” I said.

It held eye contact, as if to say, “Imma just hang out here for a bit, OK?”

Meanwhile, more gulls had come from neighbouring roofs. A jackdaw had fallen, its wing damaged from the flight. Its compatriots attempted to defend it, but to no avail. The hatchling and I watched as one of the gulls picked the jackdaw up by the neck and shook it like a rag doll.

After this defeat, the jackdaws retreated. One or two kept a quiet vigil by the clearly dead jackdaw, but when the gull came at them, they flew away, one last glance at their fallen comrade. The gull put one foot on the corpse and ripped its heart out.

The hatchling and I looked at each other again. I wanted to offer comfort but at that moment, it must have realised that if it was quick, it might get its first taste of corvid. It ran back onto the roof, looking hopefully at the corpse. Its parent stared at me, its beak covered in blood.

The war was over. The gulls were triumphant once again. I closed the blinds and left them to their victory.