A derisory laugh, pumping – almost rattling – sounds out behind us. They call it a ‘yaffle’ and it’s difficult to find a different word to capture the sound. ‘Did you hear that?’ I ask her, knowing that she isn’t going to reply. ‘That’s a green woodpecker.’ Suddenly, as if it heard me, an almost luminous-green bird comes bounding over our heads and along the tree-lined path. It’s bright red cap gives it an almost clown-like appearance, quite apt then for its chuckling call. I turn so that she can see from within the sling and point it out as it undulates away from us in flight.
It seems that with every step we take, a ‘new’ skylark gives flight. A bubbling and almost-constant backing track of nostalgic melody surrounds us. ‘Can you hear the skylarks?’ I ask her, already knowing the answer. A pair of dunnocks flick across from the fence line and onto the gorse, quickly disappearing into prickly growth. I know she can smell the gorse and so I tell her about it, ‘that smell is gorse, it smells like coconut, you’ve tried coconut!’
You see, it’s not about me and my own experience of being outside anymore. She’s the number one priority and I want to share it all with her, not force it upon her. I just want to talk to her about what she can see, hear and smell (she’s not tasting much as she keeps chewing on the shoulder strap of the sling) Occasionally, she acknowledges me or our surroundings, screeching at a dog-walker or turning to look towards wherever I’m pointing. It’s a constant and calming conversation, albeit particularly one-sided. We turn to walk along the southerly path, back to where we began our walk.
On this side, the wind is too strong for her and I have to put her hood up and eventually, the wind-protector on the sling. There’s no focus on being immersed outside anymore, just on getting her back to the car. Bird moments become briefer. The onomatopoeic chunt of a chiffchaff beats over from the car-park, I tell her all about it, it’s journey and how it signals spring. How Daddy has written about them in his book and that this season is a time of wonder and new-emergence.
We’re almost back to our starting point and the buffeting has stopped, for there’s more shelter in the south-eastern corner of the reversion field. The cover and hood come down and we stop to look at the horses in the paddock. A scratchy sub-song emerges from the hedge that borders the horse-fields; and it blossoms into a fruitful fluted melody – a blackcap. She laughs at the horses, they always make her laugh. I smile at the blackcap song and the reassurance it brings.
As we hop the fence to the track where the car is parked, a lone Fieldfare sits atop the outpost tree down the track. It should be moving on now, as we are, and I like the comparison. It’s on the tree that has been the staging post for many a ring ouzel and the singing spot for many a mistle thrush. I inform her about the significance of the tree and she shrieks in delight, but at the horses again, not the reminiscence. Off it flies to continue onward, as we do, to the car and then home.
NB: None of the pictures in this post were taken yesterday as nothing takes you back-to-basics more than having to accommodate the needs of a child over your own. The camera stayed in the change bag!