The contrast couldn't have been greater. Strength and gentleness personified. Tapping quietly on the office door last week was a big bloke in his overalls. His hands and face were smeared in oil and grease. He had flecks of car paint in his hair and he sounded almost apologetic as he explained what was in the cardboard box he was holding so carefully in his hands. I wasn't exactly sure what I was going to find as I looked inside the grubby carton. He had said that some of the baby swallows in the garage round the corner had fallen or flown out of their nest and this one had landed with a sickening plop in a pool of sticky, black car oil. He 'just wanted to do something to help' and felt really sorry. He liked the swallows, even though they often pooped on his cars and sometimes even on him. He'd gone to the trouble of placing a small cardboard shelf under each nest to catch any unwanted debris. The swallows were a sign of spring, of the end of winter, of warmer weather, of better times ahead. In April each year as the huge doors of the garage were pushed wide open, the first of the swallows would appear one sunny morning. They would race around the metal rafters, calling in fake alarm whenever he moved from one end of a car he was working on to the other. But eventually, they settled, they accepted his comings and goings and they knew after many generations that they had a safe haven to raise their broods.
The mechanic disappeared round the corner and was gone. In any other location I would have quickly taken this sad, oil covered little bundle to the nearest bird hospital or SSPCA centre but no such luxury here at the moment. On many islands and reserves we quickly pass any sick or injured birds to those that are trained and really know what to do. Generally, we don't. But we still care deeply and will do all we can to help. So as the barely recognisable fledgling swallow lay on the dirty rag I hit the 'phones and internet. Do you use any old washing up liquid to clean off the oil? No, it's got to be Fairy I'm told. Is it worth it? Isn't it too stressful for the bird and will it survive anyway? Best to humanely destroy it I'm told. Did I know how to do that? As I looked at my pathetic oily clump of a patient I began to think this was probably the only and right course of action.
Then, though it could barely move, it emitted that lovely baby swallow call you hear when you walk into a barn or listen to them gathered on telephone lines, waiting to be fed by hard working parents before they migrate. I knew then that I had to at least try just once to give him a chance. A bowl of warm water, washing up liquid, a towel. I picked him up, my fingers quickly feeling slimey and sticky from oil. In a desperate show of defiance he bit me and I've never been so pleased to be bitten. An hour later after washing each wing feather in turn and soaking and rinsing his clogged breast feathers, he looked like he was beginning to fade. He was wet and shivering and looked so fragile I began to seriously question my own actions. But I could actually see his little heart pounding away through his soggy feathers and bare lizard-like skin. He no longer resembled a bird, let alone a sleek, fast flying swallow. Now I had to dry him and fast. Grabbing Caroline's hairdryer, setting it on low and warm, I switched it on. Working the warmth through his short stubby plumes, his head fell limp and I could feel him giving up the fight. Don't you give up on me now! Once he was completely dry I settled him gently into a clean box and left him in the dark to either recover - or die. Frankly I expected the latter.
The girls came home from school and wanted to know what daddy had in the box this time. I knew we had to leave him in peace at least for a little longer but there was still no movement from within. After another hour, we dared to peep inside. He very nearly escaped in a flurry of unexpected energy as he saw the light and a chance for freedom! He wasn't completely out of the woods but I knew now his only real chance of survival was to get him back to the vicinity of his nest. Livy and I rushed him back round to the garage, made sure he was well away from any oily hazards and looked around to look for his old nest. Three other young swallows - perhaps his brothers and sisters - were sitting on the rafters and were calling. Another one was still in the nest. Suddenly that one called, then another and our little guy called back. We looked at each other. The mechanic emerged from under a car and we knew what we had to do. I was half expecting to have to climb the ladder myself and find a safe spot. But no. He wanted to do it. There was no point in going too near the nest as the remaining fledgling would probably just jump, perhaps before it was ready and we'd have another casualty on our hands. So our little guy was placed high in the rafters on a wide ledge and there we left him. We retreated out of the garage as he began to call loudly for food and an adult swallow swooped in with panic alarm calls cursing our presence and with absolutely no gratitude for all our efforts!
I'd like to give you all a cast-iron happy ending but in truth I can't - but I can give you a hopeful ending. I think we gave him his best chance. Was it right to put him through all that cleaning stress? I honestly don't know; it was a personal judgement in a split second. I kind of think we had to at least try and make it up to him after causing his beautiful slate blue plumage to become so soiled. I mean, swallows have a hard enough time of it anyway don't they? They migrate thousands of miles through drought and deserts to bring joy to our British summers. And when they do make it all the way to Mull they get greeted with one of the wettest summers on record and then one baby swallow gets covered in horrible, thick black oil. I think we owed him. Will he make it all the way back to Africa this autumn and then back here again next spring? By the Law of Averages, probably not. But maybe, perhaps, possibly, he will.
As we left the garage, our swallow was shouting loudly for food and will have been fed. We said our goodbyes and Liv's eyes filled with tears for one tough baby swallow she'd only met half an hour before The caring bloke in the oily overalls was back under his car but I noticed he'd cleaned up the pool of oil. One swallow of summer somewhere up high in the rafters had been given a second chance. I think he deserved it.
Dave Sexton RSPB Scotland Mull officer