THE DEVIL BIRDS

The story of how I rescued a baby swift

Last week, I heard a God-Almighty screech. I was delighted. For there, in the skies above me, were four swifts, wheeling and hurtling through the blue. Most birds fly through necessity but swifts, it is thought, fly for the sheer joy of doing so. They are remarkable birds and when you read through this piece you will understand why. But they are now on the endangered list in the UK and it is our job to save them.

This piece is an edited version of a story I originally wrote in 1995 when I first became editor of British Country Living Magazine. The need to save swifts is even more urgent now than it was then.

A sunny Sunday morning. Church bells herald the end of morning service. A light breeze disperses the sun's warmth. I stroll along the high street, rounding the corner into our road. I shift my pace slightly to avoid treading on a dark shape. It moves. I stop. A wide mouth gapes. I crouch. It is a baby bird, and despite only ever having seen pictures of them before, I realise immediately that this huddle of charcoal grey feathers, with its flat head, short beak and tiny clawed legs is a baby swift.

Since reading an article in British Country Living Magazine way back in 1990, I have been captivated by these unique avian acrobats. Just listen to these facts:

“When the young swift tips out of its nest into flight (nests are built over a sheer drop so it only has one chance) it will fly continuously, not for a day, or a day and a night, but for months and years. It is now believed that unless it is grounded by severe weather or accident, the swift keeps flying from the moment of its launch until it finds a mate and makes a nest, one, two or even three years later”.

I Iearn that swifts can fly 500 miles a day, that they eat, sleep, bathe and even mate on the wing – how amazing is that?

So now, each May I look forward to the first searing screech as these aerial vandals arrive from Africa to shatter the peaceful slumbers of a suburban British summer. They are not collectively called “A Scream of Swifts” for nothing!

But all I ever see of them is their black, scimitar shapes silhouetted against the sky. The precipitous sighting of their nests in tall buildings and incredible speed of their flight (up to 70mph) has resigned me to the fact that I can never hope to see them close up. Now, suddenly, here I am holding one in my cupped hands. I reckon it must be a few weeks old because it has well-formed feathers, but it's probably still two or three weeks away from its maiden flight. So, its exit from the nest must have been unplanned, perhaps caused by sibling shifting during the frantic scramble to receive one of the regurgitated balls of 300 insects brought by their parents. It has plummeted like a stone. And even if it were ready for flight, once a swift is grounded, its legs are too short to allow it to take off again.  

Some 40 feet above me under the eaves of a tall building, I can just see possible nesting sites. I see, too, against deep azure blue, the skydiving adults, swerving and spiralling, filling their gullets with gnats for their young who wait, fat, ugly and immobile, customers of the fastest food chain in the business.

But what am I to do? I can't leave it here at the mercy of the first cat, curious child or unwary foot that comes along. I can't return it to its nest. So, I carry it gently homewards, a pathetic bundle of feathers and huge skin-rimmed mouth.

As I move, the mouth gapes again, the eyes flick open, instinctive reflexes, but the food it had hoped for is not forthcoming, and its body closes down, the eyes and beak shutting in unison. I know its chances of survival are almost nil.

My swift doesn't seem to be injured, but the pressing question for the moment is what to feed it? Catching gnats or mosquitos is not something I've ever attempted. I have a garden full of aphids and although they can smother a stem of new, fresh growth in days, they don't amount to much once you scrape them off. Believe me I tried.

Then I hit on the idea of consulting a friend who keeps reptiles: what does he feed them and would a baby swift be partial to the same tasty comestibles? He arrives half an hour later with a box of crickets. But they're much bigger than gnats and they're alive. How does he kill them? I ask. He doesn't. He just pops them in with the lizards and within a few minutes they're gone. This is not going to be easy.

We fill the sink with water and put several crickets in holding them under to drown them. I can't watch while I commit this heinous crime. But this is a matter of life and death, or vice versa. The poor sodden, lifeless creatures are picked out with tweezers and brought to the tightly shut mouth of our orphan. The movement rouses him and the mouth gapes. A cricket is crammed in. But this bird is not stupid. Crickets have never been part of his diet – and they’re too big to swallow. He flicks his head back and the cricket is tossed through the air landing with a plop on the kitchen floor. Programmed to vacuum up any food that falls from the table, without waiting to see what it is, one curious dog gets an unexpected treat.

This is hopeless. I need help from the experts. With low expectations, I call the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (no internet in those days). A very helpful lady answers: I’m astonished! It’s a Sunday! She says she'll send me an information sheet in the first class post (no email in those days), so I should get it by tomorrow (decent postal service in those days). But what am I to do in the meantime? She reads out the instructions for feeding as I hastily scribble notes. Minced beef seems to be the thing, but she adds “Don't be too disappointed at the chick doesn't survive. They often don't”.

I am determined that me and my swift will buck the trend. Our guest bedroom is swiftly(!) converted into a swift nesting site. Fortunately, it's in the eaves of the house, 30 feet up, and so replicates the youngster’s first home pretty well. I cut a rectangular hole in one end of a shoe box as instructed and press it against the closed window. This will allow my swift to survey the world outside in safety from its prospective launching pad.

The following days are a constant round of feeding and nest cleaning. The fact that I am out at work all day mustn't interfere with the regular servings of mince – I make batches of balls and freeze them - so a friend is called in to cover the midday shift. The main challenges I face are keeping my inquisitive cat at bay and convincing the swift that it needs to eat to survive. It’s tactic of food tossing has been perfected and pieces of mince often have to be retrieved from under the bed. I try gentle force feeding by holding the beak open, dropping in a morsel of meat and clamping the beat shut until a swallow has been affected. After a week my swift begins to stretch its wings, fluttering them gently on occasions.

Swifts start their migration at the end of July and are gone by the middle of August. My swift has been with me for three weeks and is growing rapidly. It is now mid July. We must start preparing for the big day. For although it is hard to believe we've got this far, the biggest test is yet to come. The baby bird has no mother to demonstrate the method of take-off and I have to hope that instinct will be its guide. There can't be a trial run. Conditions must be perfect, preferably early on a clear, sunny morning.

I rise each day at 5am to check the form. Finally, a beautiful, summer's day dawns. I lift the bird from its box, pass it through the open window and set it gently on the sill. At first it seems unmoved, uninterested. Then there's a screech, a slice, and a rush of air as a group of swifts wheel past. My bird snaps open its eyes. Its body trembles. Its wings begin to quiver. I hold my breath. Nothing happens. Eyes closed, again, it sinks lower on the windowsill - depressed. So am I. I know the weather will break soon and my swift will miss its chance.

On the fifth morning I'm dozing off in the sun, when I sense some movement. The bird, sitting on the window sill, yawns. Seemingly alert, it watches the skies. The wings stretch and give a tiny flutter. Suddenly the black body tips off the edge of the sill. I'm caught unawares and leap up to see the swift careering towards the roof of the house opposite. It hits the tiles and flops into my neighbour’s garden. With horror I witness their dog rushing towards it. My heart pounding, I race frantically to the rescue. I cannot believe that my swift will end up either dying of shock or as a tasty, mongrel morsel.

Fortunately, the puzzled dog allows me to rescue my hapless charge. I feel dreadful. Perhaps my swift would have been better off as a natural fatality. What if all the force-feeding has made it too weighty for flight? I set off for work with a heavy heart. But next morning and the next, find me back in my chair by the window and my swift on the sill. We've got to do this. With each day there are fewer swift's in the sky. The migration is well underway and mine will lose its slot.

Then it happens. I am aroused by a flutter. I look up to see my swift on the edge of the sill. It seems hesitant, looking for all the world as it as if it is counting to three. A second later, it tips off. At first there seems to be a falling. Then instinct works. The wings stretch wide, catching the swell of the breeze. The small dark body lifts, dips, lifts again and is gone. I can't believe it. The feeling of euphoria is tremendous.

The man with the crickets is delighted. Friends at work who've lived through every day of this trial, congratulate me and heave a sigh of relief that it's all over.

The following autumn a nesting box made to British Trust for Ornithology specifications is fixed onto the eaves of the house. Swifts pair for life and return to their original nesting site when they have mated. They can live for up to 21 years. I have high hopes that my swift might return to breed when it’s ready or, in the meantime, other swifts might spot this des res.

By spring, a family of starlings has taken up residence. I can’t be cross, as starlings too, unbelievably, are on the RSBB danger list – they were so common in my childhood.

To this day I shall never know what became of my swift, but suffice to say that my experience has only fuelled my fascination for these elusive birds. Each year as April ends and May begins, I scan the skies for the first telltale slash of black. Sadly, there are far fewer swifts arriving than there were even in 1995, when I first wrote this piece, but I still look for them. Until my neck aches, I stand, my face upturned. And there they are. Not many. But still a few. My eyes can barely keep pace with their wheeling and diving. I pivot occasionally to follow their black, slicing shapes and their endless aerobatics. Just a black shadow spiralling skywards high, high until it is gone. And a distant shriek that leaves the thrill hanging in the air.

Swifts are known as "The Devil's Bird" - probably because of their screeching calls and their inaccessibility and thus, like owls, they attract more folklore than good natural history.

Historically, swifts nested in holes in large trees, cliffs, sandy banks and crevices but today's UK population depends almost entirely on buildings for nest sites. They squeeze through tiny gaps to nest inside roofs, but as more old buildings are renovated and gaps in soffits closed up, swift nesting sites are fast disappearing.

This, in part, resulted in swifts being added to the red list in the 2021 UK Conservation Status Report. Our job is to put up swift nesting boxes on our houses. Google “Swift nesting bricks or boxes” and you will find many options including those from the RSPB. Two or more are better than one as swifts are sociable birds and like to nest in groups. It is also recommended to play swift calls through a relatively inexpensive sound device which is more likely to attract them. I know, it sounds weird, but do a bit of internet research and you’ll understand. We need to do this. It would be a tragedy is these miracle birds disappeared from our skies.

I have to pay special thanks to Marc Pascual from Pixaba for the first image of a swift and https://www.instagram.com/theotherkev/ for the second. Madly, I never took pictures of my swift (no mobile phones in those days)

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You’re reading Home Truths, a newsletter from me, Susy Smith. I am many things: a parent of grown-up kids, a dog owner, a gardener and a compulsive mover of vases (I worked for years as a stylist). I am also a writer/editor and former Editor-in-Chief of British Country Living Magazine.

I write here on an eclectic mix of subjects about life, and a few of the lessons I’ve learned along the way.