the
sea. There's a lull now after the wind, sleet and rain, but out
over the sea the midday sky is bruised and blackened, with
ominous clouds. It's time to go home. Ben will be waiting, and
so will the children.
On the drive back to my family, the light changes as the
storm nears, becoming a strange feverish yellow which is
growing darker by the minute. I don't know if it's the eerie
light or the fact that I'm light headed with illness and exhaustion,
but I take a wrong turning and find myself on a strange
road. It's narrow like most of the roads around here but it
seems to be running down into a wooded valley. There are no
villages or farmhouses, no sign of any kind of habitation as
the road winds and curves in the valley. There is thick woodland
on either side: ash, beech and oak with a few conifers.
The bare branches of the trees are coated by the sulphurous
light looking beautiful and ominous at the same time.
There are no turn-offs, no buildings, nothing but this winding
road through the wooded valley. I've lost all sense of direction
and don't know where I am, or where this road is heading.
And then the woodland disappears and I'm on a marshy
plain, the road crossing a little stone bridge over a rushing river
where a single swan is floating slowly and elegantly, framed by
the sudden expanse of purple and yellow sky.
I have to stop. It's so breathtaking, this scene. I get out of
the van and stand below the old bridge, looking at the wet
expanse of grass and moss on either side of the river. It's like
a vast marshy meadow right out of a fairytale, with what looks
like an egret in the distance standing pale against the dark
lavender-grey of the sky.
Is it really an egret? I've seen them before, but only in Florida.
I've heard they're appearing in Cornwall but no one I know
has seen one. It's smaller than a heron and pure white, startling
against the green moss of the meadow. The swan, unafraid
and unthreatening, swims up to the edge of the water just in
front of me as if trying to grab my attention away from the
egret. I feel I must give it something, in honour of the season.
I've just received a special gift, a fifty pence piece from an old
pensioner, and I want to give something in return.
I search my jacket and trouser pockets for a biscuit or another
titbit but nothing is there. 'Wait a minute,' I whisper and run
back to the van.
The swan waits as if understanding every word. The storm
seems to be waiting too, for it has not yet broken despite the
blackening sky.
I find the remains of a cheese sandwich I had for lunch and
throw it to the swan. It seems to nod its head in acknowledgement
before consuming the bread and looking at me
expectantly. 'That's all,' I murmur.
The swan appears to accept this and begins to swim silently
away. I stand for several minutes, savouring the moment. The
egret is still there too, poised like the statue of some ancient
nameless god. It is so silent. I can't remember ever feeling a
silence so intense, so moving. It is, after all, Christmas Eve. Silent Night, Holy Night.
Finally I go back to the van, decide to carry on further along
this strange road before giving up and turning around to go
back the way I came. To my surprise, I find I've driven a
different way to the neglected church outside the village which
was my first stop this morning. I know where I am now.
I pass the overgrown churchyard, the broken side door, the
cracked windows. But this time there are lights inside, shining
through the stained-glass windows. Out front several men and
women are hanging coloured lights on a tall Christmas tree
which wasn't there earlier. The wind is blowing them about
like paper cut-outs and it seems to me to be a crazy thing to
do, with such a ferocious storm brewing, but they are laughing
and determined, shouting instructions and encouragement at
each other as they struggle to keep the string of lights from
blowing away in the wind.
I love their spirit, their optimism in the face of
sea. There's a lull now after the wind, sleet and rain, but out
over the sea the midday sky is bruised and blackened, with
ominous clouds. It's time to go home. Ben will be waiting, and
so will the children.
On the drive back to my family, the light changes as the
storm nears, becoming a strange feverish yellow which is
growing darker by the minute. I don't know if it's the eerie
light or the fact that I'm light headed with illness and exhaustion,
but I take a wrong turning and find myself on a strange
road. It's narrow like most of the roads around here but it
seems to be running down into a wooded valley. There are no
villages or farmhouses, no sign of any kind of habitation as
the road winds and curves in the valley. There is thick woodland
on either side: ash, beech and oak with a few conifers.
The bare branches of the trees are coated by the sulphurous
light looking beautiful and ominous at the same time.
There are no turn-offs, no buildings, nothing but this winding
road through the wooded valley. I've lost all sense of direction
and don't know where I am, or where this road is heading.
And then the woodland disappears and I'm on a marshy
plain, the road crossing a little stone bridge over a rushing river
where a single swan is floating slowly and elegantly, framed by
the sudden expanse of purple and yellow sky.
I have to stop. It's so breathtaking, this scene. I get out of
the van and stand below the old bridge, looking at the wet
expanse of grass and moss on either side of the river. It's like
a vast marshy meadow right out of a fairytale, with what looks
like an egret in the distance standing pale against the dark
lavender-grey of the sky.
Is it really an egret? I've seen them before, but only in Florida.
I've heard they're appearing in Cornwall but no one I know
has seen one. It's smaller than a heron and pure white, startling
against the green moss of the meadow. The swan, unafraid
and unthreatening, swims up to the edge of the water just in
front of me as if trying to grab my attention away from the
egret. I feel I must give it something, in honour of the season.
I've just received a special gift, a fifty pence piece from an old
pensioner, and I want to give something in return.
I search my jacket and trouser pockets for a biscuit or another
titbit but nothing is there. 'Wait a minute,' I whisper and run
back to the van.
The swan waits as if understanding every word. The storm
seems to be waiting too, for it has not yet broken despite the
blackening sky.
I find the remains of a cheese sandwich I had for lunch and
throw it to the swan. It seems to nod its head in acknowledgement
before consuming the bread and looking at me
expectantly. 'That's all,' I murmur.
The swan appears to accept this and begins to swim silently
away. I stand for several minutes, savouring the moment. The
egret is still there too, poised like the statue of some ancient
nameless god. It is so silent. I can't remember ever feeling a
silence so intense, so moving. It is, after all, Christmas Eve. Silent Night, Holy Night.
Finally I go back to the van, decide to carry on further along
this strange road before giving up and turning around to go
back the way I came. To my surprise, I find I've driven a
different way to the neglected church outside the village which
was my first stop this morning. I know where I am now.
I pass the overgrown churchyard, the broken side door, the
cracked windows. But this time there are lights inside, shining
through the stained-glass windows. Out front several men and
women are hanging coloured lights on a tall Christmas tree
which wasn't there earlier. The wind is blowing them about
like paper cut-outs and it seems to me to be a crazy thing to
do, with such a ferocious storm brewing, but they are laughing
and determined, shouting instructions and encouragement at
each other as they struggle to keep the string of lights from
blowing away in the wind.
I love their spirit, their optimism in the face of
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