Here above this ancient port, my home, I am king of all I survey. Black-backed and black-hearted, my wingspan is broad, my beak, sharp. I give no quarter to the other gulls. Just as the sea captain below will give none to his enemies. I glide above the tiny streets, the timbered houses and shops so close that they could almost embrace, all the way to the mighty Barbican, big-stoned, high-walled, surrounding Drake’s fleet. Barnacled by age, the ships wallow in the harbour, eager to set forth into the open sea. I swoop down around him and the other fellows, engaged in a strange dance with large round pebbles which they roll across the green. Over on Hamoaze Point, the brazier is set alight, signalling sighting of the Spanish Armada. But Drake cannot sail until the tide turns. I dip a wing and turn off towards the quay where the fishing boats are moored to see if there is any bounty left from that morning’s catch. Often there are shellfish that the other gulls cannot enjoy. They are not as clever or strong as I. Landing on the glittering warm granite quayside, I scoop up a forgotten scallop, fly to the height of the nearby fishermans’ cottages and drop it back onto the stone below. After three attempts I manage to crack it open to reveal the tasty morsel hiding inside. As I finish it, I hear shouting from across the water and see Drake and his crew clambering into the jolly boats, and rowing off to the galleons, rocking like sea horses out in the Sound.
After snatching a fish out of the jaws of a herring gull’s victory, I glide over the rippling pennants atop the ships’ masts and circle as the men heave the canvas up into the air, the ships flapping their wings in due deference to me. The teams of sailors work the capstans, drawing up the great anchors, in readiness for the tide and seawitch wind to catch them up and throw them forward into the open Channel.
Further out on the horizon is a brewing mass of ships. The great galleons of the Spanish come to meet the tiny ships of the English fleet. But the great galleons of the south are slow and cumbersome. The Albion craft are quick to manoeuvre, and clever, blasting their guns broadsides onto the great hulks before them. The smoke starts to obscure my view but I can still see the Spanish, battered and bruised, still holding the line. Until the fire ships come into play. The flames are too much for me. King of the ocean skies am I, but I will not take them on. And neither can the Armada. They beat a retreat further up the Channel, the English fleet nipping at their heels. I wheel around back to the shore, Smeaton’s Tower my beacon, back to lord it over the feathered fraternity settling to roost.
After snatching a fish out of the jaws of a herring gull’s victory, I glide over the rippling pennants atop the ships’ masts and circle as the men heave the canvas up into the air, the ships flapping their wings in due deference to me. The teams of sailors work the capstans, drawing up the great anchors, in readiness for the tide and seawitch wind to catch them up and throw them forward into the open Channel.
Further out on the horizon is a brewing mass of ships. The great galleons of the Spanish come to meet the tiny ships of the English fleet. But the great galleons of the south are slow and cumbersome. The Albion craft are quick to manoeuvre, and clever, blasting their guns broadsides onto the great hulks before them. The smoke starts to obscure my view but I can still see the Spanish, battered and bruised, still holding the line. Until the fire ships come into play. The flames are too much for me. King of the ocean skies am I, but I will not take them on. And neither can the Armada. They beat a retreat further up the Channel, the English fleet nipping at their heels. I wheel around back to the shore, Smeaton’s Tower my beacon, back to lord it over the feathered fraternity settling to roost.
