Cape in early October for the first seagoing birds of the season. Bruised and battered by their Atlantic crossing, the birds would alight at the first possibility, the westernmost tip of Cape Clear. Very often a bird would be alone, separated from its migrating companions by miles of vast sea and wind.
The bird-watchers themselves came in a variety of forms, arrayed in mostly muted colors, soft hues and delicate browns and greens. Some carried large and expensive cameras, hard-sided cases with telephoto lenses, tripods, sight glasses; yet others went nearly unencumbered save their rubber boots and mackintoshes, small binoculars and notebooks. Most of the Brits were what they call twitchers, birders who travel long distances to sight and log various species, ticking them off their lists. They were mostly male, and solitary. They seemed to me to be a part of that disappearing middle class of English gentlemen, men who carried themselves like something from an E. M. Forster novel, the upright, cheerful, and staid Britishness, always quick to stammer an apology, men who unabashedly wore houndstooth coats over rag wool sweaters, walking sticks and notebooks bound with twine clutched in their armpits. In the pub they placed their books on the bar and using nubs of charcoal or elegantsilver pens filled their pages with artful and delicate drawings of the birds they had seen.
Sebastian Wheelhouse was unwrapped from his layers and enjoying a hot whiskey with nutmeg and drying his boots by the peat fire. I watched as he flipped through his bird book, studying the pages and occasionally running a finger over his sketches. His shoulders rolled slightly each time he turned a page, and his booted feet twisted before the fire. He was clearly deep in thought, his lips bunched together, and since he was the only remaining person in the bar, I figured he likely needed to catch the ferry.
Last ferryâs leaving in a couple minutes, I said. If you need to catch it.
He seemed genuinely startled.
Oh, he said. Thank you. But Iâm actually staying on the island for a few days.
He didnât move his body but craned his neck to look at me as I stood slightly behind him. He wore thin tortoiseshell glasses, and his hair was that low muddy color and streaked with bits of blond, like the chlorinated hair of a competitive swimmer, curling over his ears and forming a slight ruff at his collar. He had his forearms self-consciously covering his journal.
I glanced at my watch.
Well, have to get back to Baltimore.
Cheers.
His gaze didnât waver for a moment.
I nodded good-bye to Sheila and stepped out into the graying afternoon. The wind was light that day, and I knew the crossing would be nice and mild. A few birders lugging large bags were waiting on the quay, looking weary and windburned. I can honestly say that I thought nothing of this encounter, other than about his hair, and the way he bent his whole body over that sketchbook.
The Siopa Beag in Cape Clearâs North Harbor sold coffee and tea and snacks, and in good weather they rolled out a few round tables next to the seawall. Bill Cutler was at one of the tables, holding down the Irish Times crossword puzzle with both arms in the breeze, hisreading glasses on and touring cap pulled low. Noraâs son, Finn, was there on his bike, working his figure eights around the parked cars on the quay, his flaming head bobbing. When Finn saw me coming he launched himself at the seawall and performed his high-wire act, his face in earnest concentration.
Bill lifted an arm high in greeting:
Elly!
The Times went flapping down the quay, Bill stumbling after, knocking the table over. Finn hopped his bike off the wall and raced after the paper, and leaning down like a Spanish gaucho in the reins he snatched the paper out of the air and came whizzing back to Bill, his face still serious and deliberate, glancing at me.
Thank you, Finn! Bill said. Elly, you have a moment?
Finn circled
The bird-watchers themselves came in a variety of forms, arrayed in mostly muted colors, soft hues and delicate browns and greens. Some carried large and expensive cameras, hard-sided cases with telephoto lenses, tripods, sight glasses; yet others went nearly unencumbered save their rubber boots and mackintoshes, small binoculars and notebooks. Most of the Brits were what they call twitchers, birders who travel long distances to sight and log various species, ticking them off their lists. They were mostly male, and solitary. They seemed to me to be a part of that disappearing middle class of English gentlemen, men who carried themselves like something from an E. M. Forster novel, the upright, cheerful, and staid Britishness, always quick to stammer an apology, men who unabashedly wore houndstooth coats over rag wool sweaters, walking sticks and notebooks bound with twine clutched in their armpits. In the pub they placed their books on the bar and using nubs of charcoal or elegantsilver pens filled their pages with artful and delicate drawings of the birds they had seen.
Sebastian Wheelhouse was unwrapped from his layers and enjoying a hot whiskey with nutmeg and drying his boots by the peat fire. I watched as he flipped through his bird book, studying the pages and occasionally running a finger over his sketches. His shoulders rolled slightly each time he turned a page, and his booted feet twisted before the fire. He was clearly deep in thought, his lips bunched together, and since he was the only remaining person in the bar, I figured he likely needed to catch the ferry.
Last ferryâs leaving in a couple minutes, I said. If you need to catch it.
He seemed genuinely startled.
Oh, he said. Thank you. But Iâm actually staying on the island for a few days.
He didnât move his body but craned his neck to look at me as I stood slightly behind him. He wore thin tortoiseshell glasses, and his hair was that low muddy color and streaked with bits of blond, like the chlorinated hair of a competitive swimmer, curling over his ears and forming a slight ruff at his collar. He had his forearms self-consciously covering his journal.
I glanced at my watch.
Well, have to get back to Baltimore.
Cheers.
His gaze didnât waver for a moment.
I nodded good-bye to Sheila and stepped out into the graying afternoon. The wind was light that day, and I knew the crossing would be nice and mild. A few birders lugging large bags were waiting on the quay, looking weary and windburned. I can honestly say that I thought nothing of this encounter, other than about his hair, and the way he bent his whole body over that sketchbook.
The Siopa Beag in Cape Clearâs North Harbor sold coffee and tea and snacks, and in good weather they rolled out a few round tables next to the seawall. Bill Cutler was at one of the tables, holding down the Irish Times crossword puzzle with both arms in the breeze, hisreading glasses on and touring cap pulled low. Noraâs son, Finn, was there on his bike, working his figure eights around the parked cars on the quay, his flaming head bobbing. When Finn saw me coming he launched himself at the seawall and performed his high-wire act, his face in earnest concentration.
Bill lifted an arm high in greeting:
Elly!
The Times went flapping down the quay, Bill stumbling after, knocking the table over. Finn hopped his bike off the wall and raced after the paper, and leaning down like a Spanish gaucho in the reins he snatched the paper out of the air and came whizzing back to Bill, his face still serious and deliberate, glancing at me.
Thank you, Finn! Bill said. Elly, you have a moment?
Finn circled
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