Polly Pullar celebrates the beloved seals of our coastline
Polly Pullar celebrates one of the UK’s most marvellous native marine mammals.
IN Highland Perthshire at Scotland’s heart, we are as far from the sea as it’s possible to be in this country. Having grown up on the coast, it’s something that I miss dreadfully.
Over the past year, when our lives were curtailed and changed due to the pandemic, there were no chances to go to the coast.
However, I have been reliving some of the magical encounters I have had with seals over the years, and thinking of my time spent on the lovely Hebridean island of Muck while writing the story of the island’s owner, Lawrence MacEwen.
Staying in a gale-battered cottage on the clifftop overlooking the island of Rum, still nights were often dominated by the eerie lamentations of seals hauled out on a skerry close to the house.
It’s one of the sounds of nature that I love – melancholy and haunting, it is peacefully calming.
On one occasion during the small hours of autumn, I rose from my bed and made tea.
Then, together with my collie, Molly, I sat out in the garden. The sea, silvered by the moon, was benign, waves softly breaking below as we listened to the pibrochs of the seals.
It is rare to sit a while on the shores around Scotland and not to have a curious seal soon peering out of the depths to watch you. Dogs playing on a beach frequently intrigue seals.
These inquisitive mammals may idly drift close to the shore to have a better look.
They blink their limpid eyes while exhaling loudly, and I see their long whiskers (known as vibrissae) decorated with saltwater droplets.
Then they disappear into the depths, only to appear again a little further out to have another look.
When the tide is right, seals haul out on to favoured skerries, sandbars and remote beaches in all weathers.
It is a crucial time for lying and lazing, snorting and grumbling to one another, jostling over the best places.
I do not think, however, one could say it was to relax, as they always have an eye out so they can leap back into the water in seconds.
Seals are extraordinarily vocal and make a range of sounds, all depicting their humour.
As a child of nature, seals were another of my many wildlife obsessions, and watching them through misted binoculars while lying hidden among rocks was something I loved to do.
Freddy and I stalked very close on the Isle of May in the Firth of Forth when he was little.
Their interactions are fascinating and entertaining.
It’s not until you stop that you realise your hands and knees have been scratched raw by the roughness of the barnacles, and you have probably crawled into things the seals leave behind.
That’s all part of life as a naturalist.
When first you start to watch, the scene may be calm.
Then there will be the occasional yawn, growl and frequent wind-blast from fish-filled bowels – seals could compete with any brass band in a trumpeting contest.
In a seal’s case, it would be a trumpet involuntary.
As another seal appears and attempts to haul out, it might first raise itself high in the water to peer at the others lying huggermugger, cheek by whiskered jowl, while trying to choose the exact place where it would ideally like to lie.
A seal is not well designed for agility on land. Its arrival often sends a wave of annoyance that ripples through the rest of the group, and the dozing brigade is temporarily disrupted.
They rudely shuffle and push one another around.
Snoozers awaken and open first one, then two big eyes before snarling lazily.
The newcomer clumsily drags himself on to the rocks, and there are further grumbles as it squashes an unfortunate beast in the passing.
They continue to moan as it wiggles its way into the bunch, before peace gradually returns. They raise their tails and heads to stretch.
Then, perhaps there is a moment of relaxation.
They raise a flipper to scratch grey-mottled skin, as a wide yawn reveals sharp incisors and canines.
If you are really close, you may catch a waft of overpowering fishy breath.
In one of my childhood diaries written during our time in Ardnamurchan, I wrote, “A seal’s eyes are like pools in the peat hags, deep and soft and you don’t know what lies in them.”
To this I would add now that they are always blinking, and seem sad and lachrymose.
However, these soft eyes belie the nature of a seal, for they are highly skilled predators at the top of the food chain, with an aggression that is equal to the sea in tempestuous mood.
They need aggression to survive in one of the harshest environments of all.
Its eyes may be softly mesmerising, but a seal will not hesitate to defend itself and sink its fish-filleting teeth into any impending threat.
We can learn much about individual characters by quietly watching the loungers’ activity on their rock through binoculars.
Like us, they are all individuals – some are nervous, brave or bombastic. There are underdogs, and there are leaders.
Discarded plastics and remains of nylon nets cause untold damage to marine life.
Pups caught in a noose of unbreakable net or plastic will eventually be strangled.
When I see the flash of bright colour attached to a seal, around its neck or a flipper, it fills me with sadness.
I know there is nothing I can do to help.
Seals are a precious part of our fauna and need our ultimate respect.