by Dora Hamilton –

This morning when I pulled up my blind, I was confused to see the outside world in a grey fuzz. My first thought was that I was still bleary-eyed from sleep, and then I wondered if there was a fire on the go somewhere causing the thick cloud in front. It was only when I unhooked the window, and a small droplet ran down the pane, that I realised the murky atmosphere was instead condensation on the glass. The temperature had suddenly dropped overnight, and so the warm air in my room had become a cold steam on the window. At first I felt reassured (thank goodness it wasn’t smoke from a fire), and for a moment was comforted by this arrival of cold weather. Being born in December – a true ‘winter baby’ – I always ease when the air is sharp and the ground is hard and frozen. But then I was hit by the horrifying realisation that this arrival of colder weather would mean the departure of the swallows.

As a child, seeing the first barn swallow (Hirundo rustica) was always a special moment: it was sign that summer was approaching. Each year when the daylight started to stretch, I would open my curtains and look up to the telephone wires to see if my birds had returned from Africa. They always seemed to arrive around the same time, and when I got older I noticed that it was almost always on the 10th of April. The sheer joy I felt when I spotted that first bird, perched on the line, preening after its long journey, was an emotion similar to Christmas morning. My hands and feet would buzz with excitement as I bounced through the house to tell my parents that I’d glimpsed the figure with the red beard and the white suit with dark coattails.

Photo by Dora Hamilton

Throughout the summer months I’d delight in spending hours lying on my back in the grass, watching the swallows swoop overheard and race each other through the thermals; their streamlined bodies and pointed wings allowing them to reach speeds of up to 35mph. Being a member of the Hirundinidae family, swallows are excellent fliers. Following them in binoculars has never been an easy pastime, as they are so acrobatic and spontaneous: propelling themselves one way, then looping around a split second later. Despite what it may look like to earth-constrained humans who long for the powers of flight, these birds are not wheeling around for the sheer thrill of it. Often, they are hunting flying insects, and so being able to quickly change direction allows them to feed efficiently.

It was this slick, agile flight that fascinated me, but also frustrated me as a child. They whizzed above too quickly for me to distinguish the swallow from the similarly-shaped house martin. For years, the only way I could confidently identify either species was when I saw them perched on the wires, where I could see the distinctly different tailfeathers. The forked tail is quintessentially swallow. In fact, the deep V of a tail is a trait admired within the swallow community: female swallows find males with particularly well-forked tails more attractive, hence these males will be the fathers of the next generation, and will pass on the deeply forked tail gene. This opulent prong is not purely aesthetic however, as there is evidence that this shape of tail helps with aerodynamics and balance during flight.

Photo by Michelle Branson

The ability to fly is vital to their very existence, not only because it allows them to feed, but since it also enables them to migrate. Up until the late 1700s, naturalists believed that birds went into hibernation when they seasonally disappeared – the concept of animals travelling vast distances and then returning a few months later was unfathomable. Migration is certainly costly, with a high energy demand, unpredictable weather, and an increased risk of predation, and therefore 60% of the world’s bird species do not undertake these long voyages. The others, however, are driven to make the journey because the conditions are more favourable elsewhere at that time of year. For swallows, the Scottish summer brings plenty of food and warm sunshine – perfect for building a nest and raising a brood. But winters here are devoid of midgies and full of snow, and if the swallows stayed they would starve and die. Instead, they gather at the end of September and begin a 6-week trip to South Africa, flying around 200 miles every day. I remember one year my parents gave me a copy of Dear Olly just after the last swallow left on migration. This book followed the journey of Hero the swallow as he made the epic journey south for the winter (I’m sure there were pivotal human characters and relationships too, but Hero is the only thing I have retained). I read it religiously each year once the wires were empty once again – I suppose it reassured me that the birds would return in the spring, but it mainly allowed me to enjoy the swallows for another week or two after they had gone.

Photo by Dora Hamilton

Subconsciously, I associated them with school holidays, suncream, family time, barbecues, and all-round happiness. It therefore became a torture when it was time for the swallows to leave: with them went the warm, fuzzy, care-free joy of summer. The hardest bit, still to this day, is hearing the excited chattering on the line, knowing that they are discussing their travel plans. And then hearing that same crackle the next day, and realising its just the empty wires fizzling with electricity. Every year I mourn their disappearance, and the urge to follow them south becomes stronger. Maybe it’s the wanting for adventure, or perhaps it’s the deficiency in vitamin D that us Scots are all victim to in the winter.

by Dora Hamilton