When I said these little birds grow up fast, I had no idea just how much. On sneaking up to the nest last Monday morning, I noted immediately that it was empty. Not the kind of empty you’d see when the chicks were tiny (all of three weeks ago) and no parent was sitting on them, but a much more permanent kind of empty.

Part of this profound emptiness came from the silence. There was no assertive chirping from an anxiously hovering parent bird; there was no answering cry from the other parent, foraging further afield. It was quite forlorn.

When Shakespeare described leafless winter trees as “bare ruin’d choirs where late the sweet birds sang,” he wasn’t just talking about an absence of birds, but it’s a very effective image. It really evokes that sense of a lack of noise where once there was hustle and bustle — a metaphor for the ruin ageing brings to us all.

Anyway, when setting out on this little series, I fondly imagined observing the fledgelings’ tentative first flights, maybe fluttering clumsily down from a branch as the parents looked anxiously on. But no — seems like 24 hours after getting feathers, these guys were already soaring the upper stratosphere. Or foraging for berries, like this bedraggled individual.

Of course, there’s a brass-bottomed evolutionary logic to all this. The longer the chicks hang out in their little nest by the path, the more at risk they were from predators. It’s all about minimising the helpless developmental hours so they can become autonomous and fend for themselves. They’re not sentimental about the home they left — they can’t be. Everything lies ahead for them, and getting there in one piece is the only priority.

Happy landings little fantails.