I Am A Swan

Swans live very narrow, prescribed lives. One day for a swan is pretty much like any other. They inhabit a small area of territory that might be considered their home turf and they rarely go beyond it.

At night, swans will sleep, much like you and I. They will usually sleep on the water as they don’t really have any predators on water that pose a threat to them. On land they might be prey to foxes or the like, although even on land there are few creatures that could take on a fully grown adult swan.

During the day Swans spend a lot of time foraging for food. Swans are vegetarians. Most of what they eat isn’t that nutrient rich, so they need to eat a lot of it. The rest of the time is often spent in grooming.

So the daily life of a swan sees them move between a few different locations within their territory, looking for food and keeping their feathers in shape. They aren’t exactly creatures of habit in one sense – they don’t sleep in the same spot every night, you won’t find them on the same stretch of water at the same time every day. (Exceptions might be if there is somewhere humans feed them at a particular time, then they’ll tend to always show up.) But it’s sort of perm any one of four or five locations. If you know your local swans and you have the requisite spare time (and interest), you can probably find them.

Especially if you’re someone like me, who also moves between most of these same locations pretty much every day – although I’m not foraging for food, I’m just seeking a quiet place to sit and read and observe life out on the river.

In the story ‘Siblings’ I wrote of how eight young swans returned to the area they grew up in after winter had passed. They’d been chased from the nest the previous November/ December by their parents and had presumably wintered somewhere nearby. With their parents off to breed in spring, they could sneak back unchallenged. This was fine until the parents (having not successfully produced new offspring) returned to chase them away again.

In the story I wrote that the parents did eventually produce new offspring. This time only two.

As it happens, this prediction turns out to be true. In June our local swans returned from a second break with two cygnets. On their first weekend back there was a big overnight storm, strong winds and heavy rain. Not as bad as winter storms, but unusual for June. The cygnets survived these testing conditions, presumably due to the expert handling of their parents. I don’t know the exact details of where and how they weathered the storm. I was in bed, out of the storm’s way.

Cygnets are most vulnerable in their first week of life and even more so in their second. (This is due to their size, their limited ability to swim for long periods on water, their furry coating not offering the same water resistance and protection as adult feathers, the fact that they are targets for a greater range of other animals etc. And in week one they still have reserves of nutrients from their time inside the egg.)

Survive these first two weeks and the longer term outlook is pretty good. 

For extra context: The parents will lead their babies out on to the water on their second day after hatching. They never directly feed the cygnets, but will teach them how to find food for themselves. They will sometimes pull up thicker weeds and the like and then leave it on the surface where the cygnets can access it more easily. Or stomp their feet to stir up matter that lies below the surface of the water, again to make it more accessible to their young. A baby swan of a few days old can only hold its breath below water for a few seconds.

One other thing you may notice in those first two weeks is the female swan carrying its babies on their back. If there is a need to move away rapidly due to inclement weather or potential threats (dogs or the like), the mother will lift up its feathers and create a smooth space on to which the young can climb up and take shelter, while she moves to a safer location at speed. All these amenities are short lived. If they’re going to survive long term, cygnets have to grow up fast.

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Swans are raised for about six months by their parents before they are forced to leave and fend for themselves. For the next couple of years they will hang out with other adolescents of a similar age until they are fully matured, can pair off for life and then raise their own young every year. The need to procreate and continue their lineage is hardwired into them. 

As every day is broadly the same on a micro scale, so is every year on the macro.

Spring is for breeding. Then the parents must shepherd their young through their most vulnerable first few weeks. In summer each adult swan moults, shedding all their feathers to replace them with fresh ones. Moulting renders them flightless for at least a month and where there are young to look after, the parents will stagger this process so that there is always one swan that can fly as part of their duties to protect their babies.

Autumn requires them to bulk up for the winter when food sources are more scarce. It’s also the time when eventually any young will be encouraged (or forced) to leave as the adults prioritise having enough food for themselves to survive the winter. Because they need to get through the winter so that they can breed again in spring. The constant cycle, that biological imperative to sustain their lineage that overrides everything else.

Swans mate for life. 

Unless one dies or becomes so injured that it cannot continue this natural cycle effectively, they will always stay together. Adolescent swans will hang out in flocks of anything from a dozen or larger until they are ready to pair off.

But there are some rare swans that turn out to be loners. They leave home alone, don’t hang out with other adolescents. Don’t mate for life. Establish their own territory and live out a solitary existence. Who knows why? Who can read the minds of a swan? (Although it must be said, swans are very intelligent creatures).

I’m not a swan. I can’t fly. But there are parts of the swan existence, the establishing of a small territory I call my own, the regular returning to the same four or five spots each day, the sense of routine, that I can relate to.

Good luck to the class of 2026. Smaller in number than the previous year. It’s not yet the end of week two, so they’ve a long way to go. There’s nothing I can do to help them. I’m just a curious onlooker in all this, more invested than the average human might be, but no more than that.