Swifts

Swifts are enigmatic birds. A delight. They are essentially an African species that chooses to spend 3 months here in the Northern Hemisphere, taking advantage of long hours of daylight and an abundance of aerial plankton to raise their young. Their decline in the UK is well documented, with reasons many fold and complex, but the bottom line is their numbers have fallen dramatically in recent decades. Locally numbers have seriously decreased, with the largest group I have seen this year being a mere half dozen when once there would have been scores. This sad and sorry state is mirrored across many parts of the land.

I wrote about these mercurial masters of the air in a previous incarnation of my blog, and repeat the main body of that here:

‘Devil Birds they called them: Screechers, Shriek Owl, Screamers. But to us inhabitants of the 21^st century they are just Swifts, Common Swifts at that. I can’t help thinking the old colloquial names sum the bird up much better, although quite why they had an association with the Devil is anyone’s guess. Perhaps it is something to do with the way they power through the air in large screaming groups towards dusk, or maybe it has something to do with the mysterious nature of their wanderings. Whatever, they are far from an avian manifestation of all things evil, they are the enigmatic, aerial masters of our sometimes tempestuous , turbulent skies; their arrival a sure sign that the short British summer has arrived, albeit sometimes in name only.

The Latin name of these scythe winged migrants is Apus apus. Apus means footless and it was long believed the birds were indeed missing those essential appendages. The reason for this stems simply from the fact that Swifts never voluntarily perch or land on the ground. The only time the birds indulge in anything approaching a meeting with terra firma is when they breed, and even then they will only build a simple nest under the eaves of houses or cavities in old buildings. It is thought young birds, that are not ready to breed for up to four years from birth, may spend all that time on the wing. Imagine how well adapted to flight you would have to be to spend 24 hours of every day zipping around in the sky, even sleeping whilst gliding around at high altitude.

As the summer wains they can be seen sweeping through the air, hurtling at breakneck speed on scimitar wings. Their world is alien to us, their purpose a mystery. We can only watch in awe their effortless twisting and turning through the jumble of rooftops; can only stand and stare at the screaming chases around our human structures. They arrive in early May and will soon be gone. As in spring, one day the skies are clear, the next enlivened by their energy;  so in late summer, one evening their screeching shapes will be charging across our skies, the following morning they have vanished. When they leave we are impoverished by their absence. It can take a little while to realise what is missing from a walk around our streets, until you realise these transient spirits of summer have departed, moved south to join the swelling seasonal exodus from our shores. ‘

The reason I feel moved to write once again about Swifts is because I recently became the unexpected temporary carer of one. Workmen fitting a new boiler system during the stifling temperature of this July heatwave, asked whether I had any bird food around. They had noticed a bird sitting on the ground the previous day and since it was still there, assumed it must surely be hungry. Intrigued, I followed them to the foot of the garden wall where to my total surprise there huddled a young Swift. What to do now? The normal bird food options were not applicable here, Swifts are highly specialised birds that cannot simply be fed on seed, scraps or worms. I’m no expert, but I recognise that trying to raise a young Swift is a highly skilled and dedicated undertaking, requiring knowledge and skills I do not possess. With photographic guidance I estimated our little ward to be about 4 weeks old, unable to fly and impossible to replace in the nest – always assuming I knew where the nest was; as far as I know the nearest active nest is at least 200 yards from our house. Ok, first things first, move it to a place of safety, somewhere cool and dark where it can settle and de-stress. An old cardboard wine box with plenty of gaps around the lid served as a perfect retreat, and once furnished with an old tea towel, the bird settled down and kept perfectly still.

So far, so good. Next, get on line to find contact details of a local carer. This didn’t take long, the Swift Conservation website includes a list of carers by county. A subsequent phone call gave a reassuring route to salvation, it seems many young Swifts have abandoned their nests because of the stifling heat, putting themselves in mortal danger. This simply transgressed my sense of fairness; the adults are facing many issues, yet manage to make it back to our shores where they invest an enormous amount of time in raising their chicks, and a freak weather event could wipe it all out. No, that wasn’t going to happen. I jumped in the car and drove 10 miles south, confident that this problem was nearing a happy ending. But frustration of frustrations, I couldn’t find where the contact lived. Normal for Norfolk you might think, where this small village, with few safe parking zones puts strangers at a severe disadvantage. I knocked on doors, stopped and asked at least three people, walked up and down, but I could not find Bramble Cottage. Pressed for time on this day, I had no option but to return home and hope our little charge would be able to make it through the rest of the day.

It nagged. I’m responsible for this bird I thought, I should at least ensure it is hydrated. A bit of ferreting about revealed a jar of cotton buds, one end of which I soaked with water and offered to the youngster. It seems if you roll the bud around the bill it will, presumably through capillary action, allow the bird to drink. It took a few minutes, but eventually I noticed the little thing swallowing some water, and once it got the idea, actively grab the cotton bud and syphon off the moisture. This was a good sign I thought. It was still alive and reasonably alert at midnight, but I wondered whether it would survive another night without food – it had already been starved for 48 hours.

I need not have worried. A tentative peek into the box the following morning showed a beady eye looking back at me. More water, and we were good to have another attempt at locating the house of the Swift First Aider. This time I found it, and before long our little Swift, still feisty and alert, joined 9 other waifs in a large plastic container. The Norfolk 1st aider is a chap named Alex Prendergast who informed me he has had about 40 calls this week alone. The extreme conditions have caused widespread abandonment of nesting sites which is very worrying indeed. Our particular youngster was estimated to have another 2-3 weeks of captive caring ahead of it, but I was assured there is every chance of survival and successful fledging. Such a relief.

I have nothing but total admiration for people such as Alex that give up so much of their time to help our wild creatures. He has 10 young Swifts in his care, that’s 10 young Swifts that would otherwise have certainly perished. 10 Swifts is more than I have seen together all year. Such dedication makes a real difference.

Wherever you are in the UK, and indeed further afield, if you find a grounded Swift, please follow the advice clearly stated here. Excuse the pun, but swift action could very well save a life of one of our most special birds.