A PAIR of swans have once again nested near the weir at Station Yard, Malmesbury, and nature lovers who have witnessed previous dramas are concerned about the safety of the babies.

LIZ BRADLEY is following the cygnets' progress for us and describes their fourth week.

Tuesday, June 2

On my way to the nest site, a baby blackbird flies right up to me, perching at eye level on the abbey railings. A few moments later, like a clip out of the BBC's Springwatch, the male parent bird flies in, plonks a worm into a gaping mouth, and in a flash they’re gone.

At Station Yard, four cygnets are swimming in the mill pond beneath the weir. The pen calls to them from the bank, but it is still too steep for them to climb up and out. Mum goes back in the water, and the ritual is repeated time and again. The cygnets look happy to explore the river at a distance from one another, but venture no further than the little bridge. Not so clingy to the parents now!

Wednesday, June 3

At Station Yard, a man who has been keeping an eye out for the swans, tells me that he has seen five cygnets swimming under the bridge by the fire station. Five?! That can’t be right! I tell him there were only four yesterday, but he’s convinced he’s seen five.

It’s a long shot, but could the missing cygnet from a few days ago, have been reported injured, taken to the rescue centre, then released back to the family? I go to Park Road, and on to Brokenborough to try to solve the mystery, but no swans in sight. At Conygre Mead, the rich melodies of a song thrush fill the air, whilst in water, minnows swim in abundance, darting about in unison. By night time I still haven’t located the family.

Thursday, June 4

By late afternoon, still no sightings. I walk along a shady path at the Mead, and watch a blackbird search for grubs beneath a giant forest of stingers, cow parsley and other vegetation. Crouching down I peer through stalks; in the shadows the song bird takes a few steps as if on auto pilot, pauses, tilts its head to listen, picks up a grub and ends a life, then another, and another. I look out for robins, but don’t see any today. In past years, one would check me out from a branch, fly down and feed from my hand. Such a light delicate but tough little bird, whose song is surely too big for its lungs!

On my way home, I see Judi walking her dog. She tells me she saw the swans this morning, near the fire station and swimming upstream. So there we have it, mystery solved, there were just the four cygnets. Ah well, at least we haven’t lost any overnight.

9.45pm: I check the nest, not expecting the family to be at home, so am pleased when I see the swans gliding gracefully into view, and watch as, one, two, three, yes all four cygnets climb up and settle beside the parents.

Friday, June 5

I haven’t seen the swans all day. People discuss their possible whereabouts. Some suggest going downstream towards the bowling green. Others upstream towards Brokenborough and beyond. They are the talk of the town!

At Conygre Mead, and with the beautiful colours of the abbey gardens as a backdrop, I watch an enchanted scene; a snow storm of seeds is blown through light and shade, landing on earth, stone and water; and so regeneration goes on! As the light fades, and no sign of the swans at Station Yard, I check out the grassy bank they’ve used previously near Brokenborough. Not there either.

Saturday, June 6

At Park Road I sit by the bank, and watch the woodpigeons, noticing a slight prejudice against this bird family. But I’m appreciating them more now, and have been enjoying watching them fly. It is a breezy day and a pigeon flaps its wings rapidly, puffs out its chest, and lets go into an aero-rollercoaster ride. It’s fun to watch and I wonder if the bird enjoys the sensation. Where are you swans?

9pm: From the bridge by the abbey gardens, I observe a heron on the stepping stones. It looks and listens intently, crouches, then re-positions itself, poised at the ready.

9.30pm: I chat with Ted by the nest. He hasn’t seen the swans either. He recounts stories of previous families. One year, he recalls watching a swan flying in the locality of the football ground. It flew into an electric cable, and tumbled through the air, and down to the ground; then moments later, got to its feet, dusted itself off, and carried on its way.

As his house overlooks the river, Ted tells me he has seen and heard the swans take to the water at all hours of the night. “I think the street lights must affect them,” he says.

By ten o’clock they still haven’t returned home, so I leave, hoping the four cygnets will still be four tomorrow!

Sunday, June 7

In the bird cage walk, a lone baby jackdaw lies still on the ground. I check to see if it is injured. It cocks its head and looks at me with little sapphire eyes. I watch it from a distance, hoping to see mum or dad feed it. It responds to one call in particular, but no parent arrives. As I leave I’m hoping it makes it, but it looks so vulnerable without the power of flight.

In the afternoon, I go on a canoe trip at Slimbridge Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust. With a swan’s eye view, a whole new perspective opens up and river life looks inviting. I pass mallards with their ducklings, coots, moorhens, dab chicks doing their vanishing acts, and a pen with two cygnets. Back at Malmesbury, where are our swans?

9.30pm: A heron flies from the top of the weir, prompting a conversation with a wildlife enthusiast. I am envious that he has foxes and badgers in his garden. I am reminded of a close encounter I had with a fox by the cricket ground one evening. We locked eyes for what seemed like ages, before it took fright and ran off.

Monday, June 8

Walking through the bird cage walk, I am pleased to see the baby jackdaw has made it through the night.

In the afternoon, by the fire station, some school children are looking down into the river. I hear one of them say, “sweet”, then watch as three cygnets swim under the bridge. Hoping the fourth has gone on ahead, I cross the road and wait for the family to emerge, but they’ve done a u- turn and are heading downstream.

Catching up with them, I am happy to see all four youngsters looking strong and healthy; they climb up the bank and snack on grass, stretch their legs and necks, preen and flap their little wings, before taking a snooze. So sweet to see their tiny beaks open into a yawn. Adoring passers-by take pictures. The adults allow me to sit close to their young. I focus on one of the sleepy cygnets, and watching its little body rise and fall, I decide to breathe in time with it. How tranquilising that is! To breathe with a cygnet!

10pm: I go down to the nest; Ted has beaten me to it tonight. “One’s gone over the weir,” he says. Oh dear. So we’re back to where this story began. But at this hour, the pen is on the nest with three babies, and the cob is above the weir peering over.

The cygnet calls and the hope is the parent will go over this man made obstacle and lead it to safety.

It is dark. I go home not knowing, and remember how earlier I had sat and felt at peace with these amazing creatures, and breathed with a four-week-old cygnet.