This is a bitter-sweet time of year. The geese, those free-ranging masters of the skies, are here in force along with the less flamboyant fieldfares and redwings, all refugees from the savage northern winter. Soon after the geese arrived, the swallows and house martins headed south on the first leg of their long flight to sub-Saharan Africa. Inevitably there were casualties. Last spring, little more than a stone's-throw from the Cartford, a pair of house martins built a nest from Wyre mud and their own spit. Soon the first dapper fledgelings were on the wing. In August the second brood followed suit. Then the pair produced a third brood, but the days were shortening. The adults had an air of desperation as they ferried a constant supply of flying insects to those ever-open beaks.
By last week the youngsters were almost ready to fly – but what a cruel word is almost. Parents and siblings swooped and shrieked around the nest, urging the youngsters on, but it was too early – and already too late. On Friday, responding to a signal inaudible to man but stronger by far than the ties of kinship, the adults turned and flew away. The youngsters peered from the nest, fluttered their not quite adequate wings and cried piteously. Come the dawn they were silent.
