Has it really been two months since I stepped through a gap in a hedge and made a prediction? In front of open water, I said to my wife and the indifferent wind: “And this is where we will see our first swallow.” Two breaths later, there it was, jinking in from our left, as if pewter clouds had parted to birth spring.
There was no great clairvoyance on my part. Like many birders, I have anticipated local arrival dates for migrants in my head after watching for them over many years. This swallow was three days past its due date and, as lakes and rivers are reliable fuelling spots with their early hatches of flying insects, its appearance was to be expected. But could I have anticipated what would not happen next?
At the time of writing, I have looked up at a lot of blue sky and clouds, scanned water bodies and lush meadows, and followed pointy-winged starlings that I’ve tried to will into something else. There have been swifts aplenty, yes, but my swallow count to date is less than 20 birds, and my house martin tally not even in double figures. For the first month, I blamed persistent winds from the north, imagining the hirundines held up in France or Spain. Now, I’m simply baffled by the dearth.
Today I’m comforted a little by another gap, another hedge and a bird that knows its own width. This swallow skims the farm reservoir, then slips through an opening in a hedge and scythes back over the top. It slices in front of my midriff and over the lake, a blue-black back against grey, then turns again and is slashing back and forth, behind me, in front, turning me round to spin in wonder at how it can keep one eye on where it’s going, one after potential prey, and one on me. I am like William Tell’s trusting son, believing in this bird’s unerring aim, for it never misjudges.
One swallow has just made my summer. Can we have a few more?
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