NEW BROOD?Swan cygnets are fiercely protected by their parents.
Happy days, full and rich with life
Country Sights and Sounds
John Shelley
The old cob has been playing games with us. We were convinced he now lived alone, that the female swan that had been so long at his side had died of age or been otherwise killed; indeed, he had spent the days of early summer paddling up and down the bay with an air of despondency, and we had no indication at all that his wife was incubating a nest of eggs somewhere at the back of the reed bed.
Earlier in the year, I had tried to walk among the thick stems but had found it impossible. Old and brittle, they towered above my head to crowd me out while those that had fallen over the years formed a dense mat some two-feet thick that gave crunching way beneath my feet. Underneath them, undulations in the lake bed made each unseen step uncertain. I was given the impression this was a private world, for the birds alone, and after a short while I was happy to retreat to easier ground where the orchids grow.
Later that evening I was back, this time in a boat, hoping to find trout hunting flies in the shallows, when the cob appeared again. This time he swam close with his wings raised over his back and his long, sinewy neck curved to form a tight figure S so that his chin rested on his breast. He breathed long puffs of air interspersed with intimidatory grunts and half-whistles. There could be no mistaking his body language and that cold glare: I was an unwelcome intruder.
Only once before did I find myself properly at the business end of an angry swan. That bird had burst out of riverside reeds without warning, wings spread wide and head high enough to look me evenly in the eye. Shocked into action, I had yelled and waved my arms into the cob’s face before taking the easy option and beating a hasty retreat, fully aware of the reputation swans have earned in defending their young. After a brief chase that bird left me alone and returned to its family. For the rest of the season I avoided that part of the river and only returned when the trout were running in the early autumn.
I wasn’t about to engage with the old cob. Although I call him old, I cannot be sure of his age. However, given that mute swans rarely live more than 20 years in the wild and do not breed until their fourth year, and that this individual has been living and nesting in the bay for at least a dozen years (at least I think it is still the same one), then he must be getting on a bit. It’s a big lake anyway, with room for us all: I retreated with dignity.
A short while later I was delighted to see his mate, the pen, with six newly hatched cygnets in tow. Small grey bundles of fluff, that’s all they are. Five of them clustered around her head as she pulled beakfuls of water weed from the shallows, while one stayed a yard away peep-peeping with uncertainty. Over the 12 years I have known the swan pair, I think they have raised less than ten of their offspring through the first year of life, and this little fellow looks ready to be the first to disappear of this year’s brood.
It’s a hard life out there, and necessarily so. If my cob and pen were successful in bringing all their young ones to adulthood there would be an extra 60 or more swans together with all their progeny looking for territory, just from this one corner of one lake. Logically, for the adult population to remain stable this pair need only find success with two of their cygnets through their entire life. To raise more would be ultimately unsustainable.
I shall try and watch the family closely over the next few months. Week one: two jealous parents and six little ones.
Back at home we have great tits newly fledged from the woodshed and a troupe of baby wrens chasing after their mother through the trees. Our blackbird pair lost their nest and have started afresh, with a new home in the redcurrant bush. These are happy days, full and rich with life.
