Farm on the M62: Such a joy as the swallows return - Jill Thorp

The landscape changed forever as did the quiet idyll. Whilst the construction tore away at the countryside, other machinery moved in and the ancient wooded valley with it’s steep sides and river coursing it’s way down from the upper slopes was also lost forever and now lays silently forgotten beneath the reservoir. The access to the farm disappeared under the water, a new lane was built and the house itself continued to see changes. Stott Hall Farm is a linear farmstead comprising of a barn, the house and then another barn, all in continuous single line, a design which is a descendant of the historic medieval long house and typical of the Pennines and Dales. A few changes have happened over the years, including an extension to the front of the house and a workshop. The roof slopes down to first floor level leaving a gap between the two add-ons where the huge arched stone door leads into the barn. We call this area the porch and is where most of our “stuff” gets chucked! Wellies, coats, haynets and various dog leads are strewn amongst a large log pile balancing precariously next to the front door. An old wooden clothes drier hangs under the roof space, usually airing out overalls and coats. This year, for the first time since I’ve lived there, the swallows have moved in. Their usual nesting place has been abandoned in favour of our porch. They’re a welcome sight and sound; their cheerful and incredibly vocal chatter of tweets, whistles and whirrs have replaced the monotonous drone of traffic that we have become so accustomed to. They are the most graceful and acrobatic of birds, darting and gliding low in search of insects, their sleak, glossy bodies glistening in the sunshine. They are as joyful and welcomed by us as the iconic Curlew and have the ability to put a smile on our faces even on the most trying of days. Their annual migration takes them on what can only described as an epic odyssey, flying up to two hundred miles a day as they head south in the autumn. It’s a six thousand mile journey, fraught with danger and difficulties, taking them down through Europe and across the Sahara desert; a far cry from the lush green fields of Yorkshire. Facing extreme exhaustion and starvation, it’s incredible to think that almost half of these remarkable little birds return to their same nest the following year. There is something truly unique and heart-warming to think they come home and the next little batch of swallows begin their lives in our porch, in our farm yard. No doubt we will soon see new faces, perching precariously on our clothes drier, waiting to be fed whilst being gently encouraged to take to the wing. It’s a privilege to share our home and watch their lives unfold whilst living ours although any thoughts of hanging washing our this summer on our clothes drier are out the window, thanks to it being covered in neat little piles of swallow poo!