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| A Colony of Cornish Seals |
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The Grey Seal in Cornwall Jean Lawman gives an insight into their life story. The tidal edge of Cornwall is an unpredictable and wild environment. One day brings savage gales; there are tumultuous swells and massive waves. Creamy white foam swirls over the sand, surf crashes into dark cliff faces, scouring, eroding and sculpting. We feel battered and beaten, but the next day dawns calm; the sea is limpid, light reflecting and amber bright fronds of Laminaria sway with easy motion. The air is calm, though it tastes salty, and we are relieved.  The many miles of ruggedness conceal remote havens: deep caverns and blowholes with sandy beaches, raw-edged fissures gouged in the cliff face and secluded coves where human disturbance is minimal; a place of echoes; where sounds are pared to the thunder of surf, lisping pipits, and just occasionally the sonorous moan of one of its main inhabitants. Raw and magical, barely glimpsed from the cliff top by most people, this is the exclusive haunt of the Atlantic Grey Seal. The use of cave beaches as nurseries is unusual among seal species worldwide, and generally, too, among Grey Seal populations on both sides of the Atlantic. Only one other species - the Mediterranean Monk Seal - shares this trait, making Cornish Grey Seals, along with small populations in Devon, Lundy Island and further up the west coast, unique. It has a cost though. There is a very high rate of mortality among the pups because of the particularly hostile conditions. Unlike their counterparts that breed on ice or on islands with open beaches, where pups remain hauled out throughout lactation, they may be forced to swim within hours of being born. A great deal more energy is needed and weaker pups may not survive. Indeed, the last issue of Cornish World reports that last winter's mortality was much higher than normal on account of the stormy weather. Very young pups in particular appear to have been washed out of their nursery caves. The inaccessibility of the breeding caves, together with difficult conditions encountered at the entrances to the caves, has one important advantage; it protects the seals from disturbance by humans and dogs. It is most important that they remain so. Storm surges and shifting sand can sometimes change the nature and terrain of the coastline, altering the accessibility and making them more vulnerable. I could have waited for low tide and gone somewhere where seals haul out, and searched the rocky islets for their pale, sun-dried bodies, or I could have gone to a sheltered bay near to some caves, where they gather and rest in numbers. I chose instead to visit a small cove where the resident bull is a familiar and almost guaranteed presence. For a while, there was no sign of him. White-water backwash sluiced in and curled round the rocks, leaving scalloped patterns of froth on the surface before being sucked out again by the incoming swell. Tawny fragments of seaweed were left strewn on the sand, wet and glistening, and the rising tide obliterated a trail of tiny footprints left by foraging Rock Pipits, gone now to pick about in the dark crevices where Sea Spleenwort flaunts its winter green brilliance. Offshore, a Gannet flung itself, about to engage in a backward slanting dive; an awesome split second decision to seize a fish that momentarily caught the light. Behind me a Robin ticked as it sought titbits underneath an upturned hull. Somewhere out of my view, a Raven croaked, a soft, double-barrelled note, the local bird on patrol. I looked skywards in anticipation of his coming by, hoping to see the easy body-flip. He soon comes and, for a few brief seconds, he is indeed upside down and sees sky nothingness. So I waited on the sand, touching it; mineral sand - crystal grains, so fine and smooth as they slid through my fingers, but individually harder than the rocks from which they are derived - a result of the timeless, erosive processes of surf, wind and rain. Winter lingers. It is a time when seals, especially females, are recuperating from the demands of last year's breeding season. After losing much of their body weight, they need to feed, and then to moult. Patchy, worn, fur - dirty and often oil smeared - is replaced between the months of December and March, and after that the seals look brand new. Their wet fur dries in the sun and lightens to blue-grey, or to pastel shades of silver, buff and cream. Look hard on the haul-out sites, where they rest and sleep, because they are often well camouflaged and, except when disturbance by other seals or the rising tide forces them to shuffle about, they are easily overlooked. From late December, the seals gather in large groups; they are very social at this time and there is little aggression; dominant males tolerate subordinates even when they are in close proximity to the females that form their harem. There are certain places in Cornwall where these gatherings occur, sometimes in caves, although not usually the nursery caves, and also on one or two inaccessible beaches. Some researchers believe that these gatherings may include immature seals from other places like Ireland, Wales or even Brittany, and this would make good sense as a varying gene pool helps to keep a population healthy. My bull seal's regular presence in this cove puzzles me. It is January, and he is often on his own here at the time of the gatherings, although not far from here there are caves with rocks offshore where numbers of seals haul out, and there are breeding caves not so far away too. He is often here in the summer, a distant dark head breaking the surface, always aloof and keeping a careful distance from us swimmers. Try to get close and he goes down; you gaze around wondering, not knowing where he is, and up he comes a little further out. This bull is not always alone though. Occasionally, and usually at this time of year, he is joined by another, easy to recognise from his browner colour and with less cream on his blotchy throat. They may cavort a little, curving their bodies round each other and appear to be playing, but there is no aggression. Or there may be a cow near to him, dog-like, snub nosed and with a rounder head, compared to the Roman-nosed giant beside her. Her body, especially her throat and underbelly, is paler grey or even whitish, with dark spots and blotches, while the general impression of the bull is of a dark animal with lighter blotches. There was a cow here recently, and even now, in mid-winter, a tiny embryo may be starting to develop within her body. In April, a new and vital force will be making itself felt, the spring-fever that we all know, and seals, along with most other animals and plants, will be making preparations for the coming season. In fact, the seals are quite elusive between April and July, and the areas around the breeding caves appear almost deserted, with the seals generally more scattered and further offshore. It is a time for them to feed and build up reserves. Mating was accomplished last year, only a mere two weeks or so after the previous year's pups were weaned. The dominant male lies close to, or within, the nursery area and couples with his females as they enter or leave the cave. Subservient bulls have a chance too, on occasions when the cows venture further afield. After fertilization, the potential life form is implanted within the cow's body and development is delayed then for roughly 100 days. She needs to feeds avidly to build up reserves for herself and her embryo. Calving will begin in July and the seals will once again frequent the breeding caves. Most pups are born in August or September, the latest in November, or rarely December. My bull finally appears. His dark, bluntly pointed head emerges from the water where he has been sleeping. He needs to breathe again. I can hear him puffing and blowing, his round black nostrils dilating. Sometime he raises himself from the water, exhibiting his thick neck and robust chest; he is a formidable foe in any conflict, bull seals often bear wounds and scars. He looks grave, calm, professor-like with his long white whiskers; he wears well his ancient lineage. His eyes are open, so he may be aware of me; he has a curious look but shows no emotion. Seals are warm-blooded, like man. Those pleats and puckers in his neck are actually rolls of fat, but he is well insulated with his 5cm layer of blubber, and somewhat protected too when he hauls out of the rolling surf to drag himself over jagged, barnacle-coated rocks to his favourite resting place. He does this with about as much poise as an overgrown slug: not so in the water though - I have seen, from the cliff top, his sleek, water-dark body swimming underwater, weaving and undulating with each unhurried thrust of his hind-flippers. He must move fast too, so that he can pursue and catch his fish. Even in very rough water he is truly at home; swift, agile and in complete control - to describe the movement as graceful is an understatement and underestimates his power. His fur glistens as he rolls over and slides beneath the waves in a fine arc, and with a kick of his hind-flippers he dives below to resume sleeping. Sometimes he sleeps with his body upright in the water with just his head showing - you can see sometimes that his eyes are closed. This is called bottling; it is obvious why. Just now though, he has been sleeping below, lying on the shallow bottom, just a dark shadow on the sand. Down there, he is imbibing oxygen stored in his blood and muscles, a supply that can sustain him for over ten minutes. Sometimes he goes far offshore to feed, and I have seen him with many a large fish, taking a chunk out of it, letting go, and then diving in pursuit as it sinks. His fore-flippers are blunt, with a set of equal length digits equipped with long and slender claws, good for gripping. Then he is up again with his fish, but this time with a group of scavenging gulls settled beside him waiting for pickings. Another bite and down he goes again - this is the way a seal will tackle a meal. Round here, they will even take Conger Eels, quite large ones, and it is entertaining, but disturbing if you are squeamish. It is a windless day and you are standing on one of Cornwall's magnificent headlands. Distant cliffs are partly shrouded in sea fog; they are dark and softly outlined. The light is brilliant white, opaque; a foggy reflection of a wistful sun attempting to break through. Every solid feature - rocky outcrop, distant lighthouse, farm building - appears magnified, out of proportion. In spite of the calm, surf still rolls in and breaks noisily on the rocks below; deep and physical, it is the only sound. Then, from somewhere, you don't know where, comes a beautiful, haunting cry, the original siren surely. It captures the imagination and is a mystery to those who have never heard it, or do not believe it - it is the cry of a Grey Seal. I have only heard this when there has been more than one seal present, and no doubt it is a way of communicating something from one to another. The only reference in my library tells me that they do it when disturbed by the closeness of another seal. Sometimes it can be heard coming from the caves, echoing and amplified, a cacophony of pure sound emanating from several individuals. Snorts and grunts are mostly what you hear, and mostly what is expected, but this cry has an unearthly and seductive quality, it is the voice of our untamed, beautiful coast. What can be more endearing than a newborn seal pup - a small, round bundle of silky white fur with huge black eyes, radiating total innocence? They are so appealing, and yet in a matter of weeks the pup will be fully independent. It may travel some distance away from the birthplace and will quickly learn to feed itself. Pups from Cornwall have even been found on the shores of Ireland. After weaning, and when the mother is ready to mate again, the pup is abandoned. Surviving on built up fat reserves, it rests for a varying number of days before the urge to leave the cave and wander further a-field makes itself felt. This sudden independence coincides with its changed appearance. The pup now resembles a barrel of fat, thanks to the very rich milk it has received, and the first moult is complete. Gone is the soft white coat; it is now dense, coarse and the familiar grey. The pup has to find its own way. It may succumb to winter storms that make feeding difficult for the inexperienced, or it may lack the strength to cope with the incessant stormy weather, as happened last year. Much weakened, it will probably be washed ashore or drowned. It may eventually suffer as a result of human activity, from encountering our oil spills, chemical pollution or entanglement in discarded fishing gear, or else it may be lucky and be a survivor, living for several years as an immature and, finally, as a sexually mature adult able to reproduce. If so, it will join a seal community either here in Cornwall or on some other wild and misty Celtic shore. |