Thirsk panted in the heat. The town clock had stopped and our pied wagtails could hardly be bothered to pop into Greggs for crumbs. I was contemplating an ice cream from the White Horse Café when the screaming began. The blood-curdling noise was being made by a party of swifts. Despite the temperature, my heart danced. Small populations of swallows and house martins cling on in our beautiful market place, but I’ve never heard swifts before. The group of six rushed repeatedly over the shop roofs searching for breeding sites.
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