Swifts hawking over Speke Hall meadows
It’s mid-June and the birds are thin on the ground: migrants have arrived, set up territories and found mates, getting down to the serious business of breeding; and the resident birds are also quiet – run off their feet feeding demanding young. At this time of year, many birders metamorphosise into moth and butterfly fanciers, and social media is awash with great photographs of a variety of species, both colourful and dull (surely the insect equivalent of the birder’s LBJ). Some of these are at a favourite site, Speke Hall meadows, part of the National Trust-run Speke Hall in Liverpool, and so I set off one Sunday morning, prepared to scour the site for a myriad of species.
As I emerge from the dark woodland that runs parallel to the meadows, an amazing spectacle meets my eyes: dark scimitars zipping along at head height, circling round, then returning. I stand, mesmerised, for a few minutes, then edge out onto the footpath and walk towards the main party. The birds aren’t bothered by my presence but I sit down on the grass anyway; some still pass so close that the feathery ‘whoosh’ of their wings through the air is audible. Apart from this sound, the birds are mainly silent, totally focused on the hunt for prey so tiny it is invisible below. Back and forth they fly, over clover, bird’s foot trefoil, thistles, buttercups and grasses, filling the sky – at least 70 of them – for over 40 minutes, then they are gone.
Watching these birds, I feel something that has been missing for a long time when I think of the natural world: a tiny flicker of hope, as well as a lump in my throat and a prickling behind my eyes. I thought these sights had gone forever; that humans had destroyed the Earth and everything that lived on it, slowly at first but now with increasing intensity. But this wildflower meadow with its bow-shaped, turbo-charged, hawking swifts has proven me wrong – at least here, in this moment and place – and that surely is a reason for joy. I rise and head for home, sated with the thrill of this encounter; the butterflies will have to wait for another day.