Swallows

I know that it is not a sensible thing to anthromorphize other animals into human-like characters, so you should never try to assume what is going on in the heart or brain of another creature, but it is hard to resist the temptation when some creatures seem so joyful. 

But then, to put the boot on the other foot, maybe our attempts to separate our own special consciousness from that of other creatures is just as wrong-headed. The fact that we have brains (and souls, say some) and alphabets and laptops doesn't guarantee that our basic feelings are any different from a swallow on the wing. They may not have the word 'joy', but you don't need a word to feel a feeling, do you?

Which brings me to swallows. Some people have a spirit animal as well as a favourite animal. They do not of course have to be the same. I would say my spirit animal is the donkey and my favourite animal is the sloth. I have the donkey as spirit animal because they seem phlegmatic and omnivorous, perhaps even optimistic, but also loud and occasionally cranky. I have the sloth as favourite animal because they just look so beautiful and they deliberately allow moss to grow on their near-static fur to provide better camouflage. And they scorn all the cat-like preening of other animals just as they scorn the obsession with using time wisely that they see in many humans. Tick tock, tick tock. 

Cro definitely had badger as her spirit animal and swallow as her favourite animal. Badger as spirit animal because they do not take a step backwards when faced with challenge or adversity (which is why so many badgers are hit by cars, alas). The badger seems to go at life bull-headed and full square, and that was Cro to a T. When it comes to her favourite animal, I know that otters and dolphins would be close second faves, but the look on her face when the swallows returned was a thing of beauty and I looked forward to it every year. When she had been told she would die in March 2023 it was a blow to know which things she would then miss that Spring, but when a late reprieve with immunotherapy gave her nearly four extra months, one of the biggest joys was seeing those swallows again first that year on a very inadvisable and bracing walk across the cliffs of North Yorkshire to gather fossils in a remote bay. 

But I love swallows too, and it is not too hard to understand why. Also I have to say that I say 'swallows' but being no ornithologist I can barely distinguish between them and House martins and swifts and any other similar birds. Forgive me. 

I love them because their flight and song seem so joyous and their flight is so beautiful and daring. I have seen them almost out of sight high in the sky over Woodbridge and also have swum in the Deben as the swallows darted inches above the water next to me, gorging on flies or taking them ungorged back to their young. I wonder if they think: "One for me, one for the kids" or whether that's too complicated and gulpy. 

The other wonderful, private and unforgettable experience I have with them is that one year when me and Cro were camping in the big bell tent on Walberswick campsite, it turned out that a pair of swifts had made their nest under the eaves of a beach hut right next to us, so we saw the whole process and we were there for several weeks that year. We had heard the noises after they hatched and then saw the whole feeding palaver, with enormous quadrilateral yellow gobs emerging over the nest entrance when a parent returned with food, and then each day seeing a little bit more fledgling activity as they started to stare out. 

As they stared out they must have seen their parents and the other swallows swooping and whirling and darting under guy ropes and bunting. And barely missing quite hard objects and moving humans and all the time looking out for more fly victims. And if I was those swallow fledglings I would have thought 'Bloody hell, how am I supposed to do that?'

Then one morning very early, after I had woken at five or so to watch the sun rise over the sea, I noticed all alone that one of the fledglings had somehow left the nest and was sitting on the edge of the shed roof. And looking up. And high above, I could see an adult swallow, presumably a parent, doing very steady un-swallow-like circles directly above. And the fledgling was looking up. Round and round the parent went, like the human parent holding out their hands to encourage that first step. And eventually, big breath, the fledgling went off in a straight line, flapping like mad, in between the tents, looking frankly terrified, but crucially, not hitting anything including the ground. 

A few minutes later it was back, panting, on the shed. And within a week they were all darting under the guy-ropes like the adults. I was very impressed, and enchanted. And remain so. 

And yesterday I saw the swallows wheeling above me in the middle of the Addenbrokes site, where they have, happily, installed plenty of nesting boxes, which the swallows have supplemented with a bit of self-build. So last night the sky was full of them as I  went for my walk, cannula in vein. 

And, just about a year ago - before I had even heard of myeloma - I was travelling across the USA and had made the short walk over the bridge from Del Rio, TX to spend the day in Acuña to see what Mexico was like. It was very nice and friendly. But it was also 108 Fahrenheit that day so I hunkered down in an air-conditioned bar until the heat relented. Then when I went back over the bridge that evening I saw and heard hundreds of swallows wheeling above the Rio Grande river. And I remembered all my joy and Cro's joy at them. And hoped to see much more of it.  And still do. And I took this video, which I hope will play.