MALCOLM Wheatman, of Kendal, recalls the practice of gull-egging prior to the Second World War.

Just before the war, for some reason, perhaps eggs were in short supply, or just that my father liked the taste of eggs other than those from a farm, he would take me on occasional spring Sundays to go 'gull-egging' (now illegal).

We set off about 7am and rode our bikes to Fowlshaw ( I always thought he said Foulshaw), a farm near Meathop, Grange-over-Sands.

We changed into Wellingtons, left our bikes there, and set off to the marshy woodland to look for the nests.

The few gulls that flew over our house were always very noisy but it was nothing compared with the overhead cacophony as we searched the undergrowth for their elusive nest.

Not until years later did I realise what we were doing and why there was such an outcry from the birds: we were robbing them of their families!

Several other groups, mainly 'man with boy' as I vaguely remember, were also similarly engaged.

One such pair informed us, as if it were a closely-guarded secret, that there were plenty of nests and eggs in a patch of trees some way off.

My dad was not taken in by this, asking me later, did I notice the way the boy was eagerly casting his eyes round as if they had yet to find their first egg.

One day I found a gull's wing and took it home to mount as a souvenir but my mother was horrified and I had to throw it into the dustbin.

I remember my father eating a hearty breakfast of bacon and two eggs which were enormous on his large plate. I could not be persuaded to share the booty.