I don’t think a year has gone by when I haven’t remarked, “this is a bit early” or “haven’t seen any yet”.
I’m talking about the swallow, hirondelle or zwaluw.
But back they are, and yesterday I stood and watched the Barn Swallow tumble and jig, swoop and glide, pirouetting above the paddocks of the Merry Horse. Generations of them return to the same place, and there has been a building here for a long time. Over 100 years ago it was a farm that catered for walkers and workers, a “cabaret” in the old sense. They are themselves a cabaret of the air.
The word swallow is ancient. In northern Europe it likely comes from a Proto-Germanic root, usually reconstructed as swalwōn. Some link it to motion, the very way the bird moves through the air, others to its call, a kind of liquid, chattering sound.
Humans and swallows have coexisted for thousands of years, and they would have been a sign that warmer times were ahead. “One swallow doesn’t make a summer”, the somewhat cautious English say, but they reassure us nevertheless.
Perhaps they were waiting for the celandines, so their babies could see.