The sign asks us not to disturb the birds. Understandable. It’s easy to miss the nests a couple of feet above your head until your hair’s parted by an incoming house martin.
They slalom the red sandstone ruins, metallic blue flashes in the morning sun. Occasionally one jinks up to the corner, disappears into the nest to meet the needs of demanding mouths, emerges and darts away again, a sleek silhouette against a backdrop of water.
