As I tossed a handful of waterfowl pellets into the air, a flotilla of ducks accelerated across the mill pond from the far bank. I recognised individuals in the dipping, dabbling throng – a pretty female with an Elizabethan ruff of white feathers encircling her neck, a mallard drake with a deformed upper mandible, and a trio of heavyset hybrids whose silver, cream and fawn streaked feathers had a velvety sheen. A coot snatched a pellet from a moorhen's bill, while a rabble of black-headed gulls swooped low to catch pellets on the wing.
The resident pair of mute swans glided out from behind the reed bed, their two cygnets trailing behind. The ducks scattered, opening a channel so that the swans could pass. The cob pecked at my trainers until I reached into my pocket for another handful of feed. He and the pen delicately plucked pellets from my outstretched palm, bobbing their heads to take a sip of water between each bite.
Now almost as large as their parents, but still with their smoky-brown juvenile plumage, the cygnets had grown in confidence and pushed past their parents for a share of the food. The cob arched his neck, puffed out his feathers and made a coughing sound, as though clearing his throat. Like teenagers going off to university, juvenile mute swans leave their parents and join a non-breeding flock where they spend about three years learning about social and sexual interaction before pairing up, and it was evidently time for these cygnets to leave home.
When the cygnets continued to feed, the cob reared up and raised his wings over his back like a shield, his tail wagging. Hissing, he lunged forward, nipping the nearest cygnet on the head. As it recoiled, the cob pivoted to charge its sibling. The cygnet spun round, its wings slapping the water as it paddled furiously to get airborne. The cob kicked up a rainbow of spray as he slid across the water in pursuit.