First it was the weather and then I was under the weather and then it was a bit of both and then the wind got up for day after day and all in all it seemed a century since I was last paddling my kayak on the local river. But there I was at last, working my way through a sprightly headwind having heard a Cetti’s warbler and seen a dabchick and feeling most frightfully bucked to be moving the damn boat along the damn river.
And then I heard a strange noise, not one I was familiar with. It sounded like a cross between a trumpet and a kazoo, gliding up by about a major third and then then back down again, the whole thing lasting about a second. I was puzzling on this as I took the bend – and there before was my answer.
There were two swans, one making this soft brassy yodel to the other. This was intriguing because they were mute swans, and for the most part they are, indeed, pretty mute.
I paddled towards them, for they were in no itchin’ hurry, and the song continued: about every ten seconds another little burst of it. Normally swans stay put and watch me paddle by, merely giving me a dark look that makes it clear that I’m the one that would be buggering off if everyone was minding his manners.
But up they went, perhaps because another pair were flying past at that moment, or perhaps because they were feeling all skittish and spring-like and a flight together, in tight formation, was just exactly what they felt like. Off they went, the sound of their wings much louder than their voices ever were.
When I got back I turned to the nine-volume Birds of the Western Palearctic and looked up mute swan. The great work lists four types of call for this species; the second is “hoarse muted trumpeting by both sexes at times during post-copulatory ceremony”.
Well well well.
saw that yesterday too at the water in Christchurch Town Quay!
It’s that time year — huzzah!
You live your precious life for many of us in urban straits. Your uplifting description of the fens is a joy. Thank you.
Thansk for kind words. And keep listeneg as, even in cities, the birds begin to sing.
My daughter and I had just returned from a doggie walk in the woods and were discussing whether we’d seen a pair of firecrest or goldcrests (no bins) when I decided to read your latest blog. It got me thinking how diverse our British birds are. You saw one of the largest and we saw one of the smallest, both beautiful and worth spending time with. Another evocative tale from you Simon. Thankyou.
How very civilised of mute swans.
That did make me smile. My mind also drifted off to a lovely madrigal “The Silver Swan” (The silver swan, who living knew no note; when death approached, unlocked her silent throat”… (etc).) Glad your swans were still full of life.
Thank you, Simon – a lovely account!
Trust you’re fully recovered….
Best wishes,
Sue Theobald
Ahh thanks for bringing us onboard your kayak. I loved the little trip.
How lovely to imagine the swansong. It could be from another realm and reminds me of the Irish legend ‘The Children of Lir’, who were transformed into swans. Maybe you encountered them while in your kayak.
Thank you for taking us with you on your magical adventure
Elizabeth
I must make certain that my Cochlear implant is in good working order next time I am walking along the Thet.