The first swallows of 2021 were most definitely early arriving in Mayo
COUNTRYFILE
OUR sand martins, those lesser cousins of the much vaunted and eagerly anticipated swallows, have arrived arrived right on time.
There are some who meticulously record the arrival of these birds every year and thus provide valuable data for proponents of global warming, climate change and other scientific theories.
For me, they were right on time. It was at the tail end of March they were first seen, before there was barely a glimmer of green in the hedgerow.
This winter has seemed impossibly, even unbearably long – now here are our friends, home from the African winter after a journey of 10,000 kilometers to swoop over river pools and build their homes in the clay banks that butt the water.
The first swallows of 2021 were most definitely early.
These are merely forerunners of the main migration, which will be on its way even as I write.
Perhaps they are approaching the northern coast of Spain at this very moment, where they will mass in ever-growing numbers until the urge to follow the sun becomes just too great.
What must they think on viewing the ocean, with no sight of land before them?
Many will have undertaken the journey before, yet there will be others for whom this is a first time.
Are they brave by nature? Must they summon courage?
Perhaps they are innately trusting, or even blind as to the possible consequence of their behaviour and compelled by mere instinct alone.
Whatever it might be, they will be welcome. By the end of August the ceaseless chittering that is the swallow's song will be wearing on the ears but until the end of June it makes a welcome tune.
New out of quarantine, I am intent on finding the first trout of the year, but the sand martins at the river are intent on disrupting my day.
They are perfectly able to snatch their insect food from midair. In fact, as long as nobody is watching, I believe this is what they do.
Yet the moment they see me with my fishing rod they turn their attention to those same river flies before they take off from the water, where they are born.
In doing this the birds dimple at the water, making tell-tale circular ripples identical to those made by a hefty trout feeding at the surface.
I see the disturbance from afar and hurry across the bog to find my fish.
I must go under barbed wire and circumnavigate a large area of blackthorn, but eventually get to the area only to find the birds are playing games and that it is they, rather than the first worthy trout of the season, who have created those alluring ripples.
When I look back up the river in the direction from which I have come I see another splashing, this time in deeper, slower water. Now that must surely be a fish. Yes, there it is again – it cannot, surely, be the birds.
It is. And so the game goes on. Yet I know from experience there are trout to be had and that eventually I shall find one.
I shall send my fly out over its nose and up it will come to swallow the hook. I will care nothing of the fruitless tramping up and down the banks, for I shall have my prize and tomorrow's dinner.
It's just so good to be free once more. Perhaps we shall avoid further lockdowns, for the summer at least.
We must make full use of the time we have.
Get to know the birds. Catch a fish. Breathe clean air.