Do you hear the swifts? They tie together
the bright light. They nest
in secret places.
from ‘Emblems: after her illness’
by Norman MacCaig
I thought they came in through the bathroom window. How else could we account for the swifts we found randomly stashed about the room. Our first find was folded inside the measuring jug we used to rinse out shampooed hair. Later that summer, I uncovered this trembling shape folded in the washing bin. One bright day, the shock of finding soft-splayed wings across the toilet bowl. The most adventurous bird (perhaps the same bird) somehow had made its way downstairs, landing unceremoniously in the fruit bowl beside the kitchen sink. I would tease each dusty creature onto a dustpan, take the in-mate outside, hold it up, and watch it fly (though our toilet discovery took a little more coaxing back into its element).
It took me months to realise where the swifts were coming from. Our bathroom had a false ceiling. We had taken some of the bulbs out of their fittings in the plasterboard to save money over the summer. When given the choice between the light squeezing through the crack of masonry at the front of the house and the circle of light above our white bath, sometimes the swifts chose the latter option. I never saw one take a fall, but the evidence began to point in only one direction: there was a nest in the eaves. In that moment of understanding, I crammed the holes, meshed in electrical wires, with newspaper (yes, a fire hazard) and that stopped the rain of birds.
It had taken me years to twig we shared a home with swifts. I wonder whether having three small children meant I didn’t spend much time looking up, above the rooftops. If I was being kind to myself, perhaps one of the reasons why I carried that sky-high blind-spot around with me was because swifts arrived at about the same time as we moved into our Victorian house in 2008. On reflection, my belief is that swifts have lived here a lot longer than we have: the brickwork under the gutter the swifts access looks like it has been in a state of disrepair for a long time, perhaps decades.
Once I saw we shared a house with swifts, my attitude toward the place I inhabited, our home, changed for good.
Over the next three to four months, from the beginning of May until Mid-August I will be posting entries from the swift diaries I kept in 2021 and 2024. These extracts will sit alongside passages from the diary I’m going to draft in 2025. Without saying too much, 2021 and 2024 were two contrasting years. It would simplistic to say that one year was hot and one was not, since there are many factors that affect a swift’s northern summer. Most of the July and August posts will come from this year’s observances. Since I have no way of knowing how 2025 will pan out, I’m hoping there is plenty of swift action to write about.
The diary entries will be delivered as notes - one or two a day (possibly three if the day merits it). I’ll also create posts as I go along, giving a slightly wider view of urban swift life. I hope to interview one or two ‘swiftians’, and there might be the odd poem along the way too.
Sitting here in late April, contemplating this wet, green city, it will be time soon to take to the streets, and start looking up.
I know you know this already but you are stunningly lucky to have swifts nesting in your midst.