Well, what drama there’s been here in rural Devon over the saga of Rita, the seagull chick. We’re not used to such excitement out here in the sticks.

Last night, while it was still light, I heard a terrific commotion from our high-walled kitchen garden where she has been trapped for two days. Imagining a prowling tomcat dragging her away in his jaws, I rushed to her rescue. She was sitting as usual in the large pot she now calls “nest”, and shrieking gull-like at the high-end of her vocal range. Her cosy position didn’t suggest danger.

On the wall, about three yards away, stood a large, handsome, female herring gull, who was also giving vent to a torrent of gull-speak. Gulls never whisper. They always shout. They’re like old Shakespearean actors, trying to make themselves heard at the rear of the stalls. Before this incident, I’d never heard a peep from Rita. That must be a good sign.

The obvious psychic bond between them suggested that this was Rita’s mother. As soon as mum spotted me she majestically spread her surprisingly long wingspan and flew low and slow over the garden and away on the other side. Now, the fleeting glimpse I’d got of her eyes told me that she had noted the bowl of food, and the obvious good condition of her chick, and was satisfied that she was safe for the moment. After all, not many gulls get waiter service and bread fried in green olive oil. We are the swanky end of town.

It was clear that, in the conversation, something had passed between them. As soon as mom had gone, Rita popped out of her pot and started running up and down the garden — despite her injured foot — with her wings spread impressively wide. This was new behaviour and obviously came from the older bird. Don’t tell me animals are stupid. Within the limits of their behaviour they’re as intelligent as humans, sometimes more so. You’d never send a gull to Oxford, but we would never dive into the sea and come up with a fish between our teeth. On their own patch, birds are as bright as Albert Einstein.

There was still a problem though. Rita was now charging full pelt, wings outstretched, up and down the garden. But in the middle sits a large, ungainly contraption which, paradoxically would make a good bird scarer. Not for our Rita though, she shot past it at speed time and time again. I was afraid she might hit the thing and break a wing. Now that would be a disaster. So out I went and shifted it to a corner where it wouldn’t do any harm. Rita continued her frantic promenade until I left her for the night. And that was the conclusion of the evening’s drama.

I was up bright and early this morning — her third day in “captivity” — armed with my new digital camera. As she has now become a Syntagma celebrity — and they don’t come any bigger than that — a tasteful portfolio of photographs was a necessity.

Imagine my consternation on discovering she was nowhere in sight. I looked everywhere, under every tree and bush, in every slot and slit, fearing to find a bunch of feathers and the pawprints of a cat. But there was no sign of a struggle and nothing in the lane either. The bird had flown.

The canny older bird had probably returned in the early morning and guided her prodigal offspring up, up, and away, back to herring gull land, where the fish are fresher and the water dirtier than the stuff that comes out of my tap.

I have long known I would never make a press photographer. I always arrive too late.

The pity was I had missed my little chum’s first flight, her flight to freedom and the bosom of her family. Do seagulls have bosoms? Never mind. Rita had triumphed over adversity, and I had played a small part in the drama by keeping her alive for two days.

When my own wanderer returns next week and she asks me the inevitable question : “How did you get on for a whole week without me?” I shall reply, as nonchalantly as I can: “Very well, darling, Rita kept me company.”