We're gobsmacked. This really is a first for us.
Since 1664, when a Russian ambassador presented two pelicans to King Charles II, the birds have graced St James's Park as living relics of the Stuart court — tended, beloved, but never fruitful. For more than 360 years, the species persisted in London's heart without once renewing itself, a quiet paradox at the centre of one of the world's great cities. This spring, four chicks changed everything, reminding us that nature's patience can outlast even the longest human calendars.
- A 360-year breeding silence was broken in May when four great white pelican chicks hatched in St James's Park — the first since the species arrived as a royal gift in 1664.
- The odds were stacked against success: pelicans typically need colonies of ten to twelve to breed, yet the park's six birds defied that threshold after weeks of avian flu containment on Duck Island.
- Released in April with no distractions and apparently one thing on their minds, the birds built nests within days, laid five eggs across three clutches, and confounded even their own caretakers.
- The chicks — described as voracious, robust, and 'ever so ugly' — are now growing rapidly, with the eldest already reaching two feet, but remain vulnerable until they enter the water at twelve weeks.
- A coalition of zoos, veterinary colleges, and wildlife trusts is supporting their care, while park officials urge visitors to keep their distance during this fragile developmental window.
In the spring of 1664, a Russian ambassador delivered two pelicans to King Charles II, and the birds were installed in St James's Park, where they have lived ever since — through the Great Fire, through wars and centuries of transformation. In all that time, not a single chick had hatched. The pelicans were tended and beloved, a living thread back to the Stuart court, but they never bred.
Then, in May of this year, four chicks hatched in quick succession. Royal Parks manager Mark Wasilewski, who is working with Blackpool Zoo, the Royal Veterinary College, and the Zoological Society of London to care for the young birds, described himself as "gobsmacked." The park's six adult pelicans — two males named Sun and Moon, and four females including 30-year-old matriarch Gargi, a permanent resident since 1996 — had never reached the colony size pelicans typically require to breed. But after weeks of confinement on Duck Island during an avian flu outbreak, something shifted when they were released in April. Within days, they were building nests. Five eggs were laid across three clutches, with Star and Gargi sharing incubation duties on one nest — paternity, Wasilewski admits, remains a mystery.
The chicks emerge black and featherless, resembling, one observer suggested, small dinosaurs. They are growing quickly — the eldest already stands about two feet tall — and their appetite is a reassuring sign of health. Over the coming weeks they will develop chestnut-brown down before true feathers appear at eight or nine weeks. The critical milestone comes at twelve weeks, when they will enter the water for the first time. Until then, the park is asking visitors to keep their distance while the mothers shelter the youngsters beneath their wings.
Wasilewski credits the breakthrough partly to circumstance: confined to Duck Island with nothing to occupy them, the birds emerged in April with singular focus. "There was no television to watch," he said dryly. For the first time in more than three and a half centuries, St James's Park is witnessing what the Russian ambassador's gift was always meant to make possible — the continuation of life itself.
In the spring of 1664, a Russian ambassador arrived at the court of King Charles II bearing an unusual gift: two pelicans. The birds were installed in St James's Park, that ribbon of green threading through central London, and there they have remained ever since—through the Great Fire, through centuries of London's transformation, through wars and plagues and the ordinary turning of seasons. But in all that time, across more than 360 years, not a single chick had ever hatched. The pelicans lived. They were tended. They became part of the park's fabric, a living thread back to the Stuart court. Yet they never bred.
Then, in May of this year, four chicks hatched in quick succession. The first emerged on the 17th, and all four survived their first month—a milestone that left Mark Wasilewski, the Royal Parks manager, genuinely astonished. "This really is a first for us," he said. "We're gobsmacked."
The breakthrough came almost by accident. Six adult great white pelicans now live in the park: two males named Sun and Moon, and four females—Star, Isla, Tiffany, and Gargi. Gargi, at 30 years old, is the elderly matriarch of the group, a permanent resident since 1996 when she was found in a garden in Southend. She has a habit of flying to London Zoo in Regent's Park to pilfer fish. Star is eight. The others are younger. Normally, pelicans breed only in large colonies of ten, twelve, or more birds. The park's small population had never reached that threshold. But in April, after the birds were released from containment on Duck Island—where they had been enclosed during an avian flu outbreak—something shifted. Within days, they began building nests. Five eggs were laid across three nests. Star and Gargi shared the duty of sitting on one clutch, though Wasilewski admits the paternity remains a mystery. "One of the two males must have impregnated one of them, but unfortunately we don't know which of the two actually laid the eggs," he said. "And we don't know which dad has played around."
The chicks arrived into a carefully orchestrated support system. Wasilewski is working with Blackpool Zoo, the Royal Veterinary College, the Zoological Society of London, and the Wildfowl & Wetlands Trust to provide expert care. The young birds are voracious eaters—a sign of robust health—and, in Wasilewski's assessment, "ever so ugly." They emerge from their eggs completely black and featherless, with only the hint of a pointed bill. "Someone said they look a little like dinosaurs," he noted. Over the coming weeks, they will develop a chestnut-brown down before feathers begin to emerge at eight or nine weeks. Already, just weeks old, the eldest chick has grown to about two feet in height.
The vulnerability window is real. The chicks are beginning to waddle around their nests, but they remain dependent on their parents' protection until they are roughly twelve weeks old, when they will take to the water for the first time. Until then, the park has urged visitors to maintain distance and avoid disturbance. Wasilewski has watched the mothers nestle the youngsters beneath their wings and calls it "nature at its best." When the first egg hatched, he said, "our wildest dreams were fulfilled. We were always hoping that something like that would happen but we never really thought it would."
The timing feels almost scripted. The birds spent weeks confined to Duck Island with nothing to occupy them. When released in April, they had one thing on their mind. "There was no television to watch," Wasilewski said dryly. Now, for the first time in more than three and a half centuries, St James's Park is witnessing what the Russian ambassador's gift was always meant to enable: the continuation of life itself.
Citas Notables
Pelicans normally only breed when they're in large groups of 10, 12 or more. We've always had between two and six.— Mark Wasilewski, Royal Parks manager
With the world as it is, to see something like this. It's nature at its best.— Mark Wasilewski, on the hatching of the chicks
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why did it take 360 years for these birds to breed? Were they simply not interested?
Pelicans need a critical mass to feel safe enough to reproduce—usually ten or twelve birds together. The park never had enough. It's not about interest; it's about instinct. They need that sense of colony.
So what changed this year?
The birds were confined during avian flu, then released in April. Suddenly they had time, proximity, and each other. Within days they started building nests. Wasilewski joked there was nothing else to do—no television. Sometimes breeding is just about being trapped together long enough.
Do we know which birds actually reproduced?
Not really. Star and Gargi shared one nest, but we don't know which one laid the eggs or which male fathered them. It's a mystery. That's part of what makes this so remarkable—it happened almost despite our not fully understanding it.
What happens now?
The chicks are vulnerable for another month or so. They need to reach the water safely, learn to swim with their parents. The park is managing visitors carefully. But if these four survive, it breaks a 360-year silence. It means the tradition continues.
Is this just a one-time event, or could it happen again?
That's the real question. If these chicks thrive and the breeding pair bonds hold, it could become regular. But pelicans are unpredictable. We're in uncharted territory.