Inside the centuries-old swan census ordered by King Charles III
The traditional event, which began on Monday, sees a young swan gently lifted, measured, inspected, and released, to assess the health of the royal flock.
The unique tradition stems from the monarch's lesser-known title, Seigneur of the Swans, or Lord of the Swans. According to ancient lore, this title grants the reigning sovereign ownership of all mute swans found in Britain's open waters.
Each year, a dedicated team of carefully selected oarsmen, dubbed 'Swan Uppers', embark on a stretch of the Thames to locate the birds.
When a swan family is sighted, the cry of "All up!" rings out, prompting the boats to swiftly encircle the birds for marking and a thorough check for any signs of disease or injury.
'It gives us an indication of what's going on throughout the country,' said David Barber, who wears a scarlet jacket and a white swan feather in his cap and bears the title of King's Swan Marker.
'It's a tradition, but I think it's serving a very useful purpose as well.'
Barber has been leading the event for more than 30 years. He is accompanied by a vet and oarsmen dressed in three colors: red for the king, white for the Worshipful Company of Vintners and blue stripes for the Worshipful Company of Dyers.
The last two are medieval London trade guilds that were granted ownership of some Thames swans in the 15th century.
The census tradition dates to the 12th century, when swans were considered an important food for royal banquets and feasts.
While swans are now legally protected from hunting, they face threats from disease, pollution, vandalism and cruelty, Barber said.
Their numbers have declined over the last two years, primarily due to outbreaks of avian flu across Britain, he said, adding that only 86 young swans were found during last year's Swan Upping, which was 45 per cent fewer than the year before that.
But Barber appeared positive at the end of the event's first day, with a total of 16 young swans recorded.
The census continues until Friday, traveling from Sunbury, on the outskirts of London, to Abingdon, 80 miles (130 kilometers) upstream.
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New Statesman
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Britain's swan song
Photo by Jacky Parker Photography The swans seem to have a premonition that they're about to be temporarily plucked from their Thameside home. The small family glides to the other side of Chertsey Lock, once the stomping ground of Lord Lucan, trying to evade their inevitable fate. 'The darn swans have disappeared on us!' laments a local man next to me. But on marches a flotilla of rowing skiffs, their crested flags looming ever closer. A burly man, sporting dazzling white slacks and a scarlet polo shirt, leans over the edge of the boat and lifts one of the birds into the air. 'All up!' the crew roars. It's a Monday morning in early July and I'm in Runnymede for the Swan Upping, an annual ceremony which sees a group of 'swan uppers' round up birds along the Thames, tag them and send them back on their way. Maybe, if you're a swan, it's a little like a yearly trip to the dentist. A small gaggle of swanoraks spectate the cygnet census alongside me, eager to witness this quintessentially British eccentricity. The cut-glass warbles of Radio 4 waft out of a narrowboat, hitting the humid air. On the riverbank, I meet David Barber, the King's Royal Swan Marker; a towering man with a dulcet voice worthy of cricket commentary. 'We've had a few catches from last year, which is an improvement. But the amount of cygnets with each family is quite small,' he says, carefully adjusting his feather-encrusted cap. Barber's concerns signal a waning swan population. Last year's Swan Upping recorded just 86 cygnets, marking a 45 per cent decline in two years. In the winter of 2023, mute swans across the UK dipped to their lowest level for 25 years. There's also been an 86 per cent decline in Bewick's swans over the last 50 years, with fewer of these more diminutive swans migrating. But it's not just a numbers game; the swan, a storied creature, is facing an identity crisis, their plight ignored by the majority of the apathetic day at the Bishop's Palace, in Somerset, resident swans Grace and Gabriel ring the bell for food, continuing a tradition started in the 1850s. Its tolls sound more ominous than ever. It's a far cry from the lofty status they once boasted. Swans have attracted myth and lore since the era of Ancient Greece, when Zeus disguised himself as a swan to court Leda. Zoomorphic trysts aside, their form has often been used in art to symbolise monogamy, based on their tendency to mate for life. And they were once the muses of many operas and ballets, from Lohengrin to, of course, Swan Lake. It's no wonder: with their graceful bundle of brilliant white plumage, marbled eyes and bright orange bill, they exude an enigmatic grace. Since the 12th century, swans have also been ennobled as Royal Fowl. This status put them on the menu at feasts. 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Like much of British tradition, ownership is hereditary – the guardian of a new cygnet is determined by its parentage, making it a nepo baby of sorts – something I see first hand at the Swan Upping, when the stripy-shirted rowers of the Dyers Company inspect fuzzy cygnets. Power-walking towards Staines, trying to keep up with the flotilla, I stride alongside a flock of local enthusiasts. There's an appetite (of the figurative kind) for swans, but there's something different in the water here compared to London; in this verdant suburbia, where Oyster cards go void and extensions are seemingly built on to extensions, an environmentalism seems to dominate. 'It's part of our heritage. So many swans appear on logos of the Thames and local cricket teams. They're on the Runnymede flag,' says Alex Schofield, a Scout leader I get chatting to. Subscribe to The New Statesman today from only £8.99 per month Subscribe But life for swans now isn't all plain sailing. Last year, avian flu wiped out swathes of the population. In addition, 'Pollution, primarily on lakes and canals, [where] the water is slower moving, causes disease and death,' says Cindy Smulders, a board member of the rescue charity Swan Lifeline. Other animals can also prove dangerous: 'Mink attack swans and take their eggs; their numbers have increased as they have no predators. Foxes also prey on swans and their numbers have increased.' Call it revenge, but swans are increasingly interfering with human environments; they are entering cafés, trespassing on train tracks and colliding with planes. And they are increasingly becoming a political football. In the early 2000s, the Sun baselessly claimed that asylum seekers were stealing swans to roast them, fuelling xenophobic panic. This urban myth has been recently revived online by the hard-right group Turning Point UK, an age-old tactic of othering immigrants through their cuisine (made more ironic by the fact that it was the British ruling class, of course, who used to roast swans). Brutally, the swans are also under attack from us. Some of this isn't entirely intentional; rubbish and fishing lines can cause havoc. Other incidences are more targeted. 'Children are fuelled by social media. There is a WhatsApp group that promotes catapulting attacks on swans, pigeons, ducks, geese and waterfowl,' Smulders tells me. 'Catapults today are huge, with large pellets. They are easy to buy online for less than £20 and no proof of age is required. Legislation is needed to change this practice,' she says. These catapult scalps are on the rise, causing dozens of swans to be maimed or killed by ball bearings. 'It's not necessarily a loss of love for swans but possibly swans are seen as a 'trophy' target as large birds. There is probably an increase in lack of respect for wildlife in general,' Smulders thinks. In April 2023, the flappable Priti Patel was bizarrely photographed beaming next to a memorial bench dedicated to a family of swans killed in a pellet attack – a mawkish gesture, but one that displayed a growing grief from enthusiasts towards swan attacks. While urban myth has long represented swans as dangerous arm-breakers, the suburban truth is that we are more likely to be the aggressor. This change in the aura of the swan is best captured by the offbeat artist David Shrigley's series of 'Swan Things', sculptures that turn the animal into an amorphous, gormless being and swaps its umbrella-handle neck for a straight, erect column. It neutralises the dark beauty the swan has mythically held. 'As a child I was told to keep away from swans because they are 'vicious bastards'. This is advice I have always heeded,' Shrigley says. 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Anders Fernstedt, a nomadic 57-year-old man known as the 'swan whisperer' who lived in Hyde Park, was banned from the park in June after being seen cuddling and kissing the swans, cycling into a resident and swan volunteer who tried to intervene. The judge imposed a restraining order on Fernstedt. But he also noted that they had more in common than they might think. 'The sad thing is all three of you have an interest in the welfare of birds but different views about how this should be achieved.' In a sense, the swan has become a scapegoat for society's own ruffled feathers and a victim of a collective ennui. Yeats's grave vision of 'when I awake some day/to find they have flown away' may soon be realised. Their demise would be a crying shame. But there are glimmers of hope. In July, a row erupted in Oulton Broad, Suffolk, after the local authority put up wooden 'safety' fences that prevented resident swans from reaching their feeding and resting area. Local human residents tore it down for them. 'They've got their freedom back – that should never have been taken away from them,' Peter Rix, a local retired builder, told the BBC. And a few days after my trip to Runnymede, I hear some positive news. The five-day escapade ended with 115 young swans being found, up from last year's tally of 86. We can hope that swans are not singing their dying song just yet. [See also: English cricket's greatest record] Related
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