We rudely refer to them as 'sky rats', but pigeons add a touch of the natural world to our busiest metropolises
Mark Cocker defends the ungainly pigeon in this weeks column, where he defends Britain's least likable birds.
Mention the words ‘street pigeon’ and most would probably summon images of those lovely chest-pouting citizens found in every urban park, with their metallic green-and-purple neck patches, strutting the pavements and adding a touch of the natural world to the busiest metropolis. There is, however, a second, less-loved version of the same animal. It is the unwelcome interloper that breeds under bridges, inside derelict factories or on the girders above public structures — bus and train stations are favourites— and which hangs around litter bins for ketchup-soaked tidbits.
Many of those pigeons have dull grey plumages that seem the very essence of urban grime. Everywhere they gather to breed or roost is further splattered, sometimes heaped, with copious quantities of white, stone-corroding, acidic guano. Even worse, the bird occasionally decides to leave its calling card directly upon us. The cost to councils for deterrent measures against feral pigeons — the endless rows of vicious metal spikes along window ledges and sometimes the deployment of captive hawks by specialist handlers — is probably the largest public expense devoted to thwarting any avian pest in Britain.
The metallic green-and-purple neck patches are sure to catch the eye.
If feral pigeons have become a public urban nuisance, then it is only because we made them so.
Yet, however much we might dislike the birds, infamously described as ‘winged rats’, there is a moral bind we must consider before judging them. If feral pigeons have become a nuisance, then we made them so. The species is so ingrained in our notion of urban life that we easily overlook its extraordinary cultural history and its anomalous ecology.
It is, in one sense, an entirely wild bird. Its ancestors originated with a coastal or cliff-dwelling species that we now refer to by a separate name, the rock dove. However, this and the feral pigeon are genetically one and the same creature, Columba livia. What separates the two is a prolonged history of interference by us. Pure rock doves still exist, keeping to themselves on remote coastal cliffs. Yet, in places such as Fife, there are examples of what are locally called ‘doo cots’: stone structures that were erected to lure rock doves into our control. The practice is thousands of years old and is still pursued in the Middle East. The birds transferred their nests into the dovecote and the owners had access to a triple harvest: the eggs, the young sweet-fleshed squabs and the guano, which was once a valuable fertiliser. It is rich in nitrates and was used for making gunpowder.
Give us a kiss!
Pigeon racing remains intensley popular today.
There is double irony in that practice, because we long ago recruited the species as a symbol of peace, then pressed it into service to wage our wars. The wild feral pigeons you find in every town are descendants of those formerly domesticated birds. There are yet further sources from when we adopted the Belgian sport of racing pigeons in the 19th century. These extraordinary navigators are famous for finding their way to pigeon lofts from hundreds of miles away. Sometimes, however, they can get lost and those strays are recruits for the urban ‘pest’ population. Homing pigeons were used by medieval Arabs as a key means of state communication across thousands of miles. Pigeon post sounds archaic and inefficient, but it continued into the era of radar navigation.
Occasionally, the exploits of these birds have been passed to posterity. Ponder, for example, a female bird called White Vision. She ditched into the Atlantic off the Hebrides on the night of October 11, 1943, when the crew of a flying boat crashed. Their coordinates were scribbled onto a message, then wrapped around White Vision’s leg. She flew against a force six head-wind until she reached her loft. The handlers found her message, resumed the search and saved 11 crew who had spent 18 hours in the water. For her bravery, White Vision received the equivalent of the Victoria Cross, the Dickin Medal.
Next time you’re in the park being pestered by a pigeon that wants to share your sandwich, reflect that it might be a descendant of the heroic White Vision. What you do know is that the bird at your feet is there because humans once wanted to make use of its ancestors.
This feature originally appeared in the June 3, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.
