The beauty – and tragedy – of our nesting swans 

There won’t be any cygnets this year. The cob was on the lake this morning on his own, occasionally slapping the water, floating without any evident purpose. His last children were taken away to new homes a year ago. His mate of years, the pen, died last spring.

People who live in the country always assume that no one in inner London has much idea of the seasons. But everyone who goes to the park notices some annual events. One used to be the nesting of the pair of swans, and the laying of eggs.

It’s hard not to look at some animals in your own terms, from a different species. My dog Greta believes that head and shoulders down, bottom up and waggling means ‘Come on, chum – let’s muck about’. In swans, however, that turns out to mean ‘Prepare to die, puny canine’.