Wednesday 27 March 2013

The Parting Glass

My family has known the Reverend Thompson for many years, and on this day the man was on the form of his life. I suppose you could call it merciless, but the well-spoken ex-soldier with the grey beard was calling the bluff of one of his former parish members, rampaging down a list of charges the length of your arm. And it was impressive rap sheet, that’s for sure.

“…riding an elephant through a Nepalese jungle… while tracking tigers.”
“…being chased by machete-wielding gypsies in Madeira.”
“…taking your infant son up Mount Etna a week before it erupted.”

The Reverend continued for some time, encouraged by peals of laughter from those who were in the know and drawing looks of astonishment from those who were not. To be fair, the ‘dressing down’, as my Mother would put it, was more than deserved. Colin and my Father had met way back in the day, with the embarrassing occasion when Dad played a butler in a church pantomime best forgotten... 

By lunchtime, some of those who had been listening to the Reverend earlier in the day found themselves elsewhere, namely in a garden at the business end of a bottle of whiskey. But these socialites were not the entire deal. A group of “more savory”, individuals was also enjoying the blue skies of rural Ulster. In one corner, a collection of fancifully festooned post-church party-goers was feasting on a table laden with ham, chicken, pies and spuds, while by the greenhouse lingered a group of awkward young professionals trying to fit in. A few inspired folk had got their hands on some guitars, while yet others were gathered around a table on the patio debating rugby. Strange words, feigned derision and claps of laughter were exchanged; it all seemed rather jolly. But then again, aqua vitae was involved.

By the end of the night I found myself in the pub beside the crossroads, one of the last members of an otherwise long-extinguished party. One more, I cried, one more, before rising to my feet and lurching in the direction of the Bushmills. Grinning, I ran from the bar and hopped the fence, clutching my glass of fire water all the while. But when my feet touched the ground on the other side, all the giddiness suddenly stopped. The graveyard was silent, cold, dark. It was different somehow, hauntingly empty. It was not unfriendly. It had no discernible emotion, it was just there.

I walked down the hill to where we all had stood many hours earlier, gathered together in strength and fragility, watching as the man was finally laid to rest. The wicker coffin had been a nice touch, the inspiration of my pseudo-hippie Mother, while dressing Dad in his flat cap, gilet and cords was a family effort. As was the decision to fill the basket with essential treasures for the old man to take across the divide: dog biscuits for when his faithful Jack Russell eventually follows; keys without locks that might find their partners in the great unknown; a collection of old stones; and a whisk, just in case.

But the dark casts a different perspective, and I was surprised to feel that the grave, and the cancer that took my father, meant nothing. The site was just another patch of dry earth in a field of short grass, the disease but an insignificant footnote to a life well lived. Thinking nothing else of it, I tossed the whiskey onto the pile of settling dirt, pushed the glass deep into mud beneath, and set-off down the hill.

I laughed, I smiled, I sang.

There were other stories to tell.

Monday 18 February 2013

Birdspotting: Green Week in The Lee Valley

Day One: Monday 11 February 
Bitterly cold evening! Flakes of snow are fluttering around here and there, but the sun is out so all is well. The Canada geese are gathering on the flatlands by the riverside, but other than that it is a very quiet evening in the Lee River Valley. Unusual not to see swans; they're probably downstream in the sheltered reeds. 

© Amadeus Finlay



Day Two: Tuesday 12 February 
Well now! What a hive of activity we have this evening. Scores of mallard ducks are circling the reserve, while the resident moorhens are strutting about in the long grasses and mud banks searching for insects and snails. Earlier I saw one of the local buzzards take a covetous glance at a coot, but seemingly he thought better of it and swooped off to the north. Still no swans… 

© Amadeus Finlay


Day Three: Wednesday 13 February 
The evening started well as I was greeted by a starling on the patio before I headed down to the reserve. So what do we have tonight? Well, apart from a handful of mallards, the river is very quiet. A set of fresh badger prints are sunk into the mud around the far side of the lake, but they lead deep into the woods beyond so I decide not to follow them. 

© Amadeus Finlay

Day Four: Thursday 14 February 
Happy Valentine's Day! Taking a romantic walk with my (much) better half and lo and behold… swans! Everywhere! It is a bright, warm evening and they are poking about in the brush, swimming across the lake and generally causing mischief everywhere. The Canada geese are also about, but so are a whole host of dippers, divers and cormorants. Plus, what a sunset! 
© Amadeus Finlay

Day Five: Friday 15 February 
It's a weekend night, so I am going to stay out late. The buzzards pop-up around sunset and circle upon the rising thermals rising from the hills off to the west. Some ducks fiddle about in the undergrowth, but there is nothing much else to report until a fox appears among the reeds… much to the consternation of the moorhens. But there is no interaction between the red-backed prowler and the little divers, and he soon skulks off. 

© Amadeus Finlay



Day Six: Saturday 16 February 
Taking the whole day today. I arrived at the reserve around 9am, and in the past two hours I have seen scores of mallards, more swans than you could point a stick at (good news!), a particularly vocal group of cormorants and, to my eternal pleasure, a firecrest. A few waders get into an argument around 3pm, but the undignified arrival of a Canada goose soon scatters the little birds. Sunset is the highlight of the day, triggering as it does a great chorus of sound to echo up and down the valley as the feathered population prepares for dusk. 

© Amadeus Finlay


Day Seven: Sunday 17 February 
Herring gulls. Everywhere is bloomin' herring gulls. Noisy, obnoxious and rowdy. At least the arrival or a chiffchaff gives me something nice to listen to. They really have got such a pretty song voice. Pity about the herring gulls…

© Gary Redhead