Birdsong

Saturday 10.15am

I am in the north of England. In an enclosed garden in a small village called Horncliffe. It is peacefull here, not quiet because I am surrounded by noise but somehow just as it should be. I notice a constant background humming and gradually realise what it is – bees, hundreds of them working away in the flowers that are all around me. And birds too are everywhere, sparrows, blackbirds, thrushes, rustling close by and then more and more distant past the wood pigeons in the woods fading into the distance. But no traffic noise. In Havelock like most places no matter what time of day or night it is there is always the constant rumble of cars, but here off the beaten track it is absent and I feel much more relaxed for that. Just as Edward Thomas described in Adlestrop years ago this background of birdsong is such an English sound. And it is part of me too, part of my englishness that I will carry everywhere deep within me, and no matter where I live.

The rain comes on, a summer shower of sudden heavy, wet raindrops and I go back indoors, carrying the birdsong with me.