“Snort, snort, snort, grunt, grunt, hiss, snort”, three large cygnets, willed on lovingly by their mother, sang in unison from the middle of the Teign River (where it passes the Passage House Inn – at Newton Abbot – where, coincidentally, Chris chose to park by the river in order to read my blog posts to Mum, as he does every Saturday morning when we take Mum shopping.)

Translated from swan language, the final verse to a traditional swan song, followed by a conversation went something like this…

“When will I see de bees a-humming, All round de comb? When will I hear de banjo strumming, Down in my good old home?” the cygnets sang and their mother hissed her praise.

“Oh, Mama,” snorted the smallest cygnet who was also the brightest, “what’s de banjo?”

“De banjo,” their mama began grunting her explanation between snorts of laughter, “is a stringed instrument for strumming tunes like de one you were just hissing. It so funny, I thought you was going to ask what ‘de comb’ means, not de banjo!”

“Mama, I already know what de comb is. It be the funny looking red bit on de top of de chicken’s head – I wouldn’t want no bees a-humming aroun’ it if I were a chicken,” the little one rolled his eyes amusingly.

“All de world am dark and dreary today, Mama, ain’t it?” the eldest cygnet grunted his rhetorical question and he gave a wink to show that it was a joke – it was a cloudy day.

The mother swan arched her beautiful white neck back with pride and snorted like a drain.

“De pen is mightier than de sword!” hissed the third cygnet, knowing that her mother would not be able to stop snorting (she had an uncontrollable and peculiar snort – three short blasts and two long – that was rather comic and which endeared her to those around her).

“Ma, look over dare,” came a faint hissper from the youngest, “dat lady is taking photo’s of us with her mobile phone.”

“Can’t we ebber get no peace on dis ribber? Listen, dis is what we’ll do…” hisspered Penny and they huddled together, and their four long necks made two big hearts (one a little lopsided).

The mother and cygnets left their huddle and swam in an arrow, mother at the helm, towards me.

“Oh dear,” I thought, “they think I have food for them. Maybe they think my phone is a slice of pink cake or bread.” And, feeling guilty for any accidental deception, I made a run for it.

Back in the car I noted that they continued on their way to the same spot where I had been standing and they stayed there, necks peering over the grassy river bank to stare at me accusingly, for at least a minute or two. At last the penn led her little bevy away from the bank. I thought I heard her hiss and grunt:

“She’ll bring us some bread next time, my dears. Way down upon de Swanee Ribber…”