We sat in the Kingfisher hide waiting for something to happen out on the lake, but weren't expecting anything quite so dramatic!
Dozens of mute swans drifted across the water, white feathers fanned out like tutus, reflecting perfectly in the still surface.
My illusion of them being avian ballerinas, dancing on the water, was about to be destroyed. By the time that July morning was over I realised they were thugs in disguise!
A lone male swan drifted a little too close to another pair. There was no obvious warning – no drawn-out hissing or posturing that we could see – just a sudden explosion of movement as the resident pair wheeled towards him.
They hit him hard: hissing, wings thumping, beaks jabbing, water flying in sheets. What from a distance might have looked like a flurry of white feathers was, close up, a full-blown fight.

I raised my camera almost automatically.
My husband’s hand clamped onto my shoulder as he whispered, “Let’s carry on. I don’t want to see this.”
I understood exactly what he meant. I wanted the shot; I also wanted to walk away.
Instead, I watched through the viewfinder and pressed the shutter.

The two males locked together, necks twisted like ropes, wings flailing as they forced each other under the water and surged back up again.
For a moment we even wondered if they were accidentally tangled and unable to separate – a real possibility, as there are documented cases of male mute swans getting entangled in territorial fights and needing human help to survive.

But as we watched them bite at each other’s wings and necks, it became clear this was deliberate and determined aggression, not an accident.
All the while, the female stayed close, placing herself between the chaos and her cygnets and steering them away from the danger. A mother doing what she did best.

I lost track of time. My watch told me it had been 20 minutes since the fight started.
The sound of hissing, splashing, the slap of powerful wingbeats continued.
Part of me wanted to stop watching in case I saw a killing blow.

Another part knew that, as a wildlife photographer, my role was to observe and document, not interfere – and that getting physically closer would have been unsafe for both me and the birds.
Mute swans are large, heavy birds, and they can cause serious injury if they feel threatened or are defending their territory or young.
So I stayed in the Hide, lens trained on the fight, trying to balance empathy with objectivity.

Eventually one bird broke free and powered away across the lake, wings beating against the water.
For a moment we felt relieved: it looked as though the intruder had been chased off and the lesson was over.
Getting away?But the victor wasn’t done.
He let the other swan gain some distance, then surged after him, rearing up out of the water and landing squarely on his back.

Using his body weight, he pushed the other bird lower and lower until only the head and part of the neck were visible above the surface.
This tactic – forcing a rival underwater - had one obvious intention. Drowning the intruder.

From the hide, it was hard not to interpret what we were seeing as a serious, possibly lethal attack.
At one point the struggling swan turned its head in our direction, and it was difficult not to project a sense of panic and desperation onto that gaze.
As the fight continued, the birds drifted across the lake towards the nesting rafts used by Common Terns.
Paxton Pits is well known for its tern rafts, which give these delicate seabirds safe, floating nest sites away from predators, such as otters.

The terns were unimpressed by the invading swans. They launched into the air, calling sharply as they began to dive-bomb the battling birds, tiny, agile shapes stooping at the much larger swans.
The scene became noisy, chaotic and strangely layered: a vicious swan fight over territory and family, wrapped in the frantic defence of another species guarding its own nests.
Witnessing such raw violence from birds I'd always romanticized was a jolt, but it revealed the ruthless instinct driving their survival.
I think many of us expect to see dramatic, life-and-death struggles on wildlife documentaries set on the African plains, not on a quiet lake in Cambridgeshire.
Watching this mute swan attack was one of the first times I’d seen “nature in the raw” so close to home.

The emotional tension was intense:
Of course, the swans were completely unaware of my internal conflict. For them it was a straightforward matter of territory, mates and survival.
Is it all over?Eventually after more than 30 minutes, we had to move on, not knowing how the story ended.
We simply hoped that, once we were gone, the defeated bird managed to break free and leave the victor’s territory behind.
That morning changed the way I look at swans.
I still see their elegance – the curve of the neck, the mirrored reflections, the soft white wings – but now I also see the power behind that beauty, and the capacity for violence when their family or territory is threatened.
Those same wings that catch the light so delicately are strong enough to batter a rival; that long neck can be used not just for feeding but for biting and forcing another bird underwater.
It also reminded me that female birds often play quieter but equally vital roles: shielding cygnets, steering them away from danger, holding a line that looks calm but is absolutely essential.
And finally, it underscored a simple truth: swans are not decorations on the water. They are wild animals, with instincts and behaviours shaped by survival, not by our stories about grace and romance.
So, yes, I still see their elegance. But under those beautiful white feathers is a story far more ruthless than any fairy tale.
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For me, it’s never been just about bird names or camera settings, but the thrill of seeing a distant speck turn into a hunting kestrel.
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