I have been on Brighton Pier for an hour on a bright, blue-skied, chilly December afternoon. But now the sun begins to wane and and clouds roll in. Suddenly the sea and sky turn green and gold and the sunlight glints off the white buildings of the city. It is like I’ve stepped into the middle of a Turner painting. Magic.
The gulls are part of the atmosphere of seaside Brighton. You hear their shrill cries as soon as you’re out of the train station. Look overhead, and they’re there, swooping and diving. But head down to the Pier and then you’ll see them in all their glory — cawing and crying, swooping in their aerial dogfights, silhouetted against the sky.
Yes, these photos were all taken within an hour — the clouds rolled in and the waning sun cast a glow on them, turning the sky golden green.
Perhaps gulls are not the Beyonces and Rhiannas of the bird world. They’re more in your face, more devil may care, more…punk. Yes, that’s it, gulls are the Sex Pistols of the bird world. The bad boys with charm. The ones your mother warned you about.