I have this thing for birds sitting on top of poles. Telephone poles, lamp posts, ship masts. Plop a bird on top of a spindly peak and I will stop and stare. Why? I have no idea, have never really given it much thought before – until those seemingly serene lookouts started dive bombing me, that is.
The first time I found myself ducking in alarm was while cycling around the southern tip of Bø. There was a seagull balancing on top of a lamp post. I pause, pull out my camera, look up to frame and focus, and am startled by a loud shrieking off to my left. A second gull has launched itself towards me, wings beating ferociously, eyes wildly fixed to mine, and beak open wide issuing a piercing battle cry.
My arms fling up of their own accord in a primitive gesture hardwired into our DNA to protect the head at all costs. Swirling air gusts through my curls, did I feel the brush of feathers? The menace swoops around for a second run.
Camera strap looped around my wrist, I climb back onto my bicycle and pedal away with far more gusto than I had all day. A couple of hundred metres and the pursuit is called off. I look back in bewilderment, never had I seen that kind of determination from a seagull without the presence of french fries.
Later I find out that it is egg laying season, a time of year when the gulls transform from noisy neighbours to psychotic bomber pilots. Stories emerge of empty playgrounds and backyard decks neglected despite the long awaited summer season due to the sudden appearance of a nest. They tell me to raise one arm above my head or, better yet, carry a long stick. The gulls will aim for the highest point.
Today I sit back at ease and with more than a little amusement as one of those overprotective feathered parents tries to shake off the clinging presence of its now almost fully grown offspring and the ceaseless, high pitched cries for more. Does this one ever wish that perhaps it had been less successful in driving away potential predators from the egg turned eating machine?
After two months of warily passing by seagulls, I am still a bit apprehensive about pausing to contemplate birds perched on posts. I wonder, did Hitchcock ever visit Vesterålen?
