Country diary: The mayhem and mystery of inland gulls | Derek Niemann

Frome, Somerset: Thirty miles from shore, they drift up the hill, dominate the church and fill the sky. But they still carry the whiff of salty air

As summer approaches, the pirates of the promenade will soon be back in the headlines again, for the chip thieves and overzealous nest defenders give gulls a bad rap. Our own unsalted birds, 30 miles from the ocean swell, offer a different take. May is the month when they are most ubiquitous, most vocal, most beguiling.

Up the combe they come, riding over the rising sun as I sit here to write and look out at the big sky. One glides before me, underwings dark, bib and belly uplit to cast an ethereal glow. A paint chart might well label this grey-tinted body hue “gull white”. Two bigger birds appear, slender wings slanting as they turn to flash a glimpse of upper, the thundercloud blue‑black of black-backed gulls. Others will follow shortly, an assorted collection of first years, second years, non-breeders, failed breeders and apprentices, their age flagged by the grey gradations of plumage.

A loose flock heading over the brow yesterday reminded me of a bunch of laggard boys meandering their way to school. Sometimes one would lunge at its neighbour as if play fighting. Then one would be distracted, luring the whole group sideways before reluctant obligation pulled them back on course. There is generally a morning westward drift up the hill. I don’t know where they go.

And what, I wonder, is the purpose behind the great agglomerations that gather overhead at any time of day to crisscross each other as if performing aerial country dancing? This is usually a soundless spectacle, unlike the pairs that fly close, uttering piteous little cries, prompting my wife to exclaim: “Sing up, gulls!”

Down the valley, herring gulls are competing with a cockerel for the dawn chorus, as they practise territoriality. Last week, they staged an unholy row over ascendancy on the ridge tiles and twin spires of Trinity church. One perched in temporary dominance, threw its head back and belted out its eulogy to fishing boat harbours, rockpool adventure and sand-filled sandals. No matter how much we try, the sound means we cannot rid ourselves of an association that throws us right back into childhood.

These are forever seagulls.

• Under the Changing Skies: The Best of the Guardian’s Country Diary, 2018-2024, is available now at guardianbookshop.com