“So this is what you’ve been doing all day? Sitting here in the sunlight talking to the birds?” “… And one particular squirrel. They join in too. But largely yes it’s me and the birds – mostly that jackdaw.”
Lou came to the woods.
I drove to Birling Gap in the morning and met her off a bus. We went walking up the Seven Sisters. There’s more waiting to fall off, they’ve fenced the edges, at some point before real summer we are due that seasonal dump of rain where all the cracked chalk peels off into the sea and our great nation gets just a tiny little bit smaller by erosion.
It’s odd round there but beautiful. Chaplains in marked vehicles drive to try and find potential jumpers. Flowers are strewn on patches of grass from relatives of the ones that slipped past. I’ve known a couple took this way out – Beachy Head. Desperately sad. Suicide is such a cruelty. I’ve always considered it too uncertain jumping here, not that I’ve put that much thought to it mind you. If I were to feel like I was buried in shit with no way out, I wouldn’t want the risk of ending up paralysed as well. But my deep embedded science thinking is both my blessing and my curse. Max was a powerful brother to grow up with.
We looked at the lighthouse, met some horses. They’ve put white horses up there. Serene, kept from the cliffs by low electric fences, but happy to come stand near people. Maybe it’s a government scheme, mental health horses. They would blow my mind if I was staggering around here off my nut on hallucinogens. I’d get no further than them. Last line of defence for local kids who think they can fly.
We blew into their noses, chewed the fat a bit. Makes a change from birds, cats and that darn squirrel. “A horse is a horse of course of course and no-one can talk to a horse, of course…?” Not strictly true. You can talk to a horse just as efficiently as I can talk to that squirrel. It just hasn’t got a fucking clue what you’re on about.
My communication with the animals here is probably mostly about territory. I’ve been feeding them seeds and fat balls but it’s just made them think I’m after their seeds and fat balls. Bastards. I try and reassure them but all I can do is imitate them, which is probably rude but I do it anyway. And so the day goes by. It’s mostly convivial.
“You’ve gone feral.” She says. “There are bats in the garden at night.” I reply.
This is deep woods, for Sussex. The owner bought land with a footprint, an old gamekeeper’s cottage and a barn. He built on the footprint, he’s an architect. He made two amazing properties. The other one is usually empty, a bit deeper in, you can rent it on Airbnb. It’s like an old American A-frame.
Somehow the binmen get here. And there’s plumbing. But… it’s a comfort, reminds me of childhood, to know that there are so many bees, that woodpeckers are still at it. To see the variety of plant life, the primroses all up and blossoms blooming. The two heavy hearted things, I haven’t heard a cuckoo. They used to mean this time of year across the country. Where are they all? And I’ve seen all sorts of tits, but nary a sparrow and they were as common as pigeons when I was a kid. Both losses. Maybe just natural shifts, but some absolute bastard deliberately stepped on three peregrine falcon eggs at St Alban’s Cathedral a couple of days ago. I hope they throw the book at him after they’ve finished throwing it at the two idiots who finally go on trial on the 28th for hacking the Hadrian’s Wall sycamore. In this digital age of misinformation, more and more people are magnifying their little ignorances or grudges about things of nature. I’m sure we will see more of this sort of thing, often mistaken by the perpetrator as some kind of expression of personal power in a largely misunderstood world.
But I’m not gonna give them the energy of thought. Here in the dark and the quiet I can just enjoy being with Lou and know that things are pretty good right here right now no matter what’s going on out there.
AlBarclay 