During the summer, as swallows hawk for insects high over our Somerset home, they are a daily embodiment of hope and joy. When they disappear, for the colder, darker half of the year, they leave a corresponding gap in our hearts.
We often say that swallows fly south for the winter. Yet, although they do travel 6,000 miles to South Africa, it is only our winter they miss – when they arrive, they enjoy a second spring and summer.
I miss them more than I ever thought I would. For the first half of my life, I lived in cities and suburbs, where the swift was the classic sign of longer days and warmer weather. But when I moved to the countryside, a decade or more ago, the swallow soon displaced the swift as my favourite bird.
Once in a while, I do see a lone swallow out of season. On a blustery day last November, I caught sight of a juvenile down on the coast; and once, in early December, I came across a solitary bird in the field beside my home. But I shall now have to wait until April for my next swallow fix – and it really cannot come too soon.
The Swallow: A Biography, by Stephen Moss, is published by Square Peg (£12.99). It is available from the Guardian Bookshop at £11.04
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