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FRAGILE BONES
It is commonly believed that if you find a grounded swift, you should pick it up and throw it in the air, preferably from an upstairs window. This is one of those scraps of information that you absorb without thinking and which, like many other such unquestioned beliefs, is actually wrong. Yet this is what I did â and it did not help at all.
I had advertised an evening walk each week of the summer around a small town in Shropshire, to find where swifts were nesting. For thousands of years we have shared the buildings we live in with assorted wildlife. Nooks and crannies within the weathered masonry of our homes have sheltered many different living things; the walls between us and the outside world are porous. It did not happen intentionally but was a consequence of the building materials available. Today we can so easily make them airtight that we run the risk of losing our wild companions. Without thinking, we are shutting nature out, severing yet another link between ourselves and the wild world.
The contemporary zeal for sealing buildings against all elements and âintrudersâ is thus depriving swifts of the crevices they may have nested in for centuries. A breeding swift will return to the same hole in the same house in the same street where its seldom-used feet touched down the previous year. This is what instinct impels it to do: to stick to the map in its memory; to navigate back to the exact place it has claimed, won and defended in order to rear its young. Unfortunately, growing numbers of swifts return to find their holes blocked off.
There are still dozens of swifts around town, but I know there are fewer than there used to be. People have told me of places where they used to see them, such as the Victorian Assembly Rooms, reincarnated as a nightclub for many years then converted to apartments with a renovation that left no holes for swifts. It is the same story in towns and cities all over the northern hemisphere. When they disappear from their old haunts, house by house, street by street, life ebbs away.
Roof renovation can easily be swift-friendly but it rarely is. In my home town I decided to find out which buildings were used by the birds, then to try and ensure their holes were retained when scaffolding appeared, before renovation work started. To my amazement, around a dozen people joined me on the first outing, fellow enthusiasts keen to find out more about this wondrous bird and its habits.
An hour before sunset is the best time to look: parent swifts will be snapping up the last insects of the day, a late supper for their nestlings. We scan the skies, listen for high-pitched cries and follow. Always on these evenings we are led into the older parts of town, along streets of Victorian terraces, above shops in the centre, down back alleys of old warehouses and beyond. Ventilation used to be regarded as essential in building construction, to prevent timbers from rotting. This ensured plenty of cavities for swifts and bats. With the advent of new materials, such as concrete and plastic, buildings started to be sealed off from the air, plastic soffits and fascia boards replacing wooden ones, with little chance of gaps opening up. Damp courses prevented moisture entering, and building regulations were drawn up, stipulating that ventilation holes must be bird- and insect-proof. Inevitably, this brought serious consequences for swifts and other hole-nesting creatures.
Discovering nest sites takes time and patience, but is endlessly interesting. Much of our time is spent simply watching the wild antics of the birds as they screech above the streets, dark crescents of energy. Every week until the midsummer solstice we set off a few minutes later, thereafter a few minutes earlier, hoping to catch sight of the parent birds as they return with the chicksâ last meal of the day, flashing into crevices under eaves in the blink of an eye. Only when the bats start to emerge do we head home; this is a crossover moment after which you seldom see a swift.
These outings open my eyes to a side of town I have barely noticed before. We look up, scanning the eaves, searching for the tell-tale signs of thin whitewash that stains the walls for a few inches below their nests, watching for a swift to make its sudden return as it swoops back into its dark hole. It is like a treasure hunt; each new nest site raises a cheer. One or two in an evening is as many as we can hope to discover. Sometimes people tell us of their sightings: âLook up at the third brick to the right of the drainpipe above the opticians on Willow Street,â writes one. âTheyâre nesting at the back of Betfred,â says another. Gradually, our knowledge of town grows a new layer, the elaborate mouldings and previously unregarded architectural details appreciated as we tune in to the swiftâs world, high above the shops and pedestrians walking the streets.
Staring up in the direction of top-floor windows inevitably attracts attention, especially when using binoculars. People stop and ask us what we are doing, which is good as it gives us a chance to talk about swifts. We meet others who share our passion. Nick, who works in an old mill in the crumblier end of town, emails me to say the sky is full of swifts around his building. We find it down a back lane. At the top of an iron fire escape a door is open. Forty steps up I call out and he appears, back from a run and eating his supper. It is a fantastic place to watch swifts, he says, the townâs roofscape below and big skies all around. Several pairs are nesting under the eaves, but he thinks fewer birds have returned in recent years.
We call on Jas, a sculptor, who contacts me to ask if his home would be suitable for a swift nest box. He lives in a single-storey, brick-built, Victorian industrial building, imaginatively converted to flood his studio with light. His backyard has been transformed into a garden with a fountain, greenery and a bird feeder. On the adjacent wall of a taller building, he is planning to grow climbing plants. And put up a swift box or two. We talk about the possibility of him doing a swift sculpture; he already has several artworks in town: some naked acrobatic drinkers outside a pub, and a man leaning out of a window, arms stretched to catch an escaping chicken, above a fast-food shop.
We have seen swifts slipping under the roof of a redundant Victorian chapel. A few weeks later, scaffolding goes up and we worry. This splendid old building has been bought by an Italian restaurateur and restoration is under way. I speak to Paolo, the owner, and he expresses concern â he does not want to do anything that will harm i rondoni. Fortunately, the roof is found to be in good shape; no renovation work is necessary. Paolo is also interested in putting swift boxes up in the tower of his house, an imposing nineteenth-century Gothic building, perched on a hill overlooking the town.
Our last outing takes place towards the end of July, a warm summer evening during a spell of hot weather. Sun, blue skies and enough rain to keep things fresh have ensured an abundance of insects at ground, tree and aerial levels. It has been just right for the swifts; they could hunt from dawn till dusk to feed their growing chicks.
The sky seems quiet. A massive thunderstorm had broken over the town a few days earlier and it looks as though some of the swifts have already left. More than a third of the birds hurtling around in mid to late summer are immature birds, and their sojourn in Europe is even briefer than that of the breeders. We meet as usual in the square, by the statue of a stocky shepherd and his sheep. Where to go? While they may not have been nesting, those immature birds have given us clues as to where to look, screaming around the active colonies and searching for nest sites to claim and use in following years.
Our decision is made when one of our number, Andrew, takes a piece of paper from his pocket. He has received a message from an elderly friend, a man who worked on the nearby railway until its closure in the Beeching era. The note tells us to go to the Cambrian Railway Museum, formerly a goods shed, where swifts have nested for at least sixty years and where, he says, we will find a swift in a cardboard box. A cat had brought it in, alive and apparently unharmed.
The first flight of a fledgling swift is always perilous. They have one chance to get their wings together and go. The urge to fly is instinctive, but it still requires courage to take the plunge. Fully-fledged birds will shuffle to the entrance of their nesting place, peer out, teeter on the edge ⌠then turn around and head back to the dark safety of their hole. The building had been used by two pairs of swifts this year and it sounds as though this casualty might have been from one of their broods. The shed is single storey, so fledgling birds have little more than a second to get flying or crash to the ground. Despite this disadvantage, generations of swifts have successfully negotiated its relative lack of height.
Our railway foundling is sitting in a shallow box with its incredibly long, narrow wings folded like crossed scimitars. Andrew spots a mite crawling away from its eye. âIâve heard the best thing to do is throw them in the air from a good height,â says someone. This is what Ted Hughes did; he had written about it in his much-quoted swift poem. And no, it had not worked out well for his swift. Still, this is the accepted wisdom and we decide to give it a try. We pick up the bird, still in its box, and take it across the road to a house belonging to a friend of Andrewâs. She lives in a flat on the second floor â ideal, we think. When we arrive, she and her young granddaughter are piecing together a puzzle at the table, but they welcome us in and happily agree to let us get on with our reckless mission. She raises the sash window as high as it will go. Gently, Andrew lifts the bird from its box and launches it upwards over the street. Its wings open ⌠and it belly-flops down to the tarmac below. If it was not injured in its first fall, it very probably is now.
On the ground, several of our group watch as the swift tumbles to the road and quickly scoop it up, fortunately still very much alive. Back in its box I carry it away; it turns its head like an owl and looks at me. Despite the wretched circumstances, this encounter is something to treasure. Never before have I seen a swift so close, so still. Wildlife has a way of vanishing before you get a chance to look at it properly, and with a swift, that most aerial of birds, you rarely get more than a passing glimpse. Well developed, with long wings, it has the markings of a juvenile: the finest white line along the outer edge of its primary feathers. Young swifts often have white foreheads too. This one is mostly brown but with a faint, pale edging to the feathers on its head, overlapping like fish scales for perfect aerodynamics. Around the corner of its eye is a black fringe of tiny, eyelash-like feathers. Nightjars, a not-so-distant relative of swifts, have these too. They protect their eyes from aerial debris and insects.
White fringes on the feathers of a juvenile swift.
Tricia Gibson/Alamy Stock Photo
For the swift, though, this is grim. Two crash landings in one day and a near-death experience when a monstrous furry animal fifty times its size had snatched it up in its teeth.
What to do now? A young lad and his girlfriend come along and look into the box, curious. I tell them its story. âThereâs a twenty-four-hour vet down the road,â he says. âThey might help.â
The blind is drawn over the door but, seeing a light switched on, I call through the letter box. A young veterinary nurse opens up and lets us in. Instantly, the swift becomes a subject of administrative procedure, its details logged on the computer. âName?â she asks. âJonathan,â says Andrew, instinctively.
Naming it after an eighteenth-century literary Swift certainly bestows dignity on our bird but I have always been uneasy about giving wild creatures names; the practice seems to tether them to the human world. No sooner has this bird fallen to Earth than its identity is altering. What I want is to restore it to its aerial realm nameless, a swift among swifts.
The bird is taken away and we head home. Straightaway, I turn on my computer and look up Swift Conservationâs advice on a grounded swift: DO NOT THROW IT IN THE AIR. Yes, that is a lesson we have learned, but what folly to have done this.
I lie awake, wondering how it is faring and whether it is badly injured. It had seemed lively, though, so I remain hopeful. Perhaps, I think, I can look after it. I had found detailed information on the internet about how to care for and feed young swifts, and a strong desire takes hold to see whether, given appropriate care, it might recover and fly. I have booked a couple of weeks off work without many plans, so I have time, I think.
The next morning I arrive at the veterinary surgery at eight-thirty. The vet on duty has checked the swift over and found no injuries, so I offer to take it away. The nurse looks doubtful but I show her my freshly printed pages on swift care. She sees my determination and fetches it from a back room, tucked into an empty latex glove box.
The swift looks terrible. Its eyes are closed and its body limp, but it sits, as before, perfectly symmetrically with its elegant wings crossed. I take it home and put it down gently in a recycling box on a towel, settling it into the spare room upstairs with two closed doors between it and my cat, Spindle. Its eyes do not open all day, nor does it move. I give it water, soaked onto a cotton wool bud, stroked along the side of its beak. If the water is dripped onto the top it would pour straight down its nostrils. The swift opens its beak a little and swallows so I repeat this every hour or so. Bright, spinach-green droppings start to appear.
I do give it a name of sorts: swiftling, a term of endearment that doesnât need a capital letter and has no inference of gender. The plumage of male and female swifts is identical; only when they are mating or egg-laying can you tell them apart, though it is known that male and female birds make up a duet of calls: that sweree sound is actually produced by a male and female bird calling alternately, and that there are subtle differences between male and female calls. But my swift is by itself and silent, so swiftling remains an âitâ.
The next morning it seems better: eyes open and a slight turn of the head. In my hand it feels stronger, not limp any more. I stroke its head and throat. Swifts like this; they preen each other when nesting and it relaxes them. Tremulous when first picked up, it soon grows calm. I give it more water and offer it a headless, legless cricket. These, I had read, are the best food to give a swift. My local pet shop had recently put up a sinister sign in the window: Live Food Available. Unsure quite what this might include, I had enquired about insects.
Crickets come packaged like grapes, in clear plastic cartons. Inside, they hunker down among the hummocks and hollows of egg-boxes, nourished by a sprinkling of bran. Most of them are destined to be snapped up by pet reptiles, but they also make excellent food for insectivorous birds such as swifts.
First, though, you have to remove the indigestible parts: heads and hairy legs. I have to grit my teeth for this bit; I am a vegetarian and prefer not to kill things, though I can be ruthless with slugs when they trail across my kitchen surfaces at night. But I have to think from the swiftâs point of view; their diet is composed of insects and spiders, aerial fodder blowing about the sky. So crickets it has to be and I soon become adept at the necessary snipping.
To start with, my swiftling will not accept these delicate offerings, its beak staying resolutely closed. Fearing its imminent starvation, I turn back to the internet for advice. Instantly, I find a German video with subtitles showing me what to do. Use a blunt, rasped fingernail to carefully open the pecker.
I do as instructed, first wrapping the bird in a soft cloth to keep it calm. Next, I open its beak, whereupon its tongue shoots out, a strong, pointed thing. When a parent swift feeds its chicks its whole head goes into the nestlingâs mouth and the food is deposited far back. I have to do something similar with a pair of eyebrow tweezers, carefully avoiding touching the soft skin inside its mouth. With my index finger I do my best to keep its beak open, which the swift seems determined to close. Finally, I get three crickets in, though it seems a small victory when I learn they need to eat at least sixty per day.
A parent bird delivers food to a nestling.
Copyright Derek Bromhall. Photographs courtesy of Derek Bromhall are all stills from his film Devil Birds, which won a Special Recognition Award at the World Wildlife Film Festival in 1982.
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