Necessary Beauty

The sand martin colony at Portinscale has almost gone now; the late breeding pairs are still returning regularly with food to a couple of nests, but the intense activity we saw weeks ago is all but finished. I’ve been afraid of this discovery. Already it heralds the passing of summer; by August many of the adults and juveniles will gather in the south east ready to make the long haul back to Africa.

And where have I been in all that time? What happened to my promise to come and visit these delightful creatures regularly? The opportunity and hope of early summer that I felt coursing through me as I watched this colony back then has dissipated; equally flown, if that is not too crass an analogy. I abandoned this for a number of reasons, much to my own detriment. Firstly, the recent influx of summer visitors, hordes of tourists suffocating the town and surrounding countryside, treating the land like a giant theme park has simply put me off my usual walks into the land; secondly, the recent debilitations of a period of relative poverty has meant taking on a menial job which, though at times has been a pleasure, has limited my time and energy; lastly, I don’t think I’ve recovered my joy for this landscape here since returning from Suffolk, which I still view as rich and enthralling as any I’ve ever experienced.

So visiting the colony again tonight was meant to be a rejuvenating activity; a chance for stillness, escape, reconnecting with something tangible in the land that I could read well and identify with as being part of this place, this time - and I believed would provide an opportunity to be inspired again perhaps, or at least simply to just take time to sit and watch –

I crouch on the bank opposite as before, the low hanging branches of the trees now in full summer leaf form a partial hide - a sunbeam breaks through the low raincloud and illuminates the nest site and the glad sound of the freshly swollen River Greta is just a few feet before me – I count maybe eight martins in all, perhaps ten – it is still early evening so it is possible that the majority are elsewhere, feeding on the clouds of flies and bugs that gather low over the river, but certainly most of the young have flown the nest. Yet this evening all of this feels strangely temporary, unimportant, with far less impact on my spirit than ever before – they lack the sustenance I am used to and this realisation is shocking, frightening – I am too tired, too undermined for this perfect picture to get through to me - I cannot say I am as happy as I once was – there is a great deal of difficulty in the days and I so abhor this kind of self-pity but find I cannot fight it, the resources have gone, which was one reason for getting out here, to recharge myself – I crave an empty mind, a desire to start all over again – you see it’s a masochist’s dream this writing lark, this ‘creating game’ – I am in pain when I don’t do any, I am in pain when I do – A process of releasing some juice from the bottle trying so eagerly to drain it, to get to the bottom, pouring it out or drinking it yet there always being the same amount left; and at the bottom there’s the terrifying voice reiterating over and over that I’m just not good enough - and so each day, as far back as I can remember, I’ve been attempting to fighting it off, trying to shut it up, to prove it wrong – yet still the fear that it may be right lingers on.

I realise that instead of looking outward on this visit I’ve done nothing but look inward – shying away from the necessary beauty.

So I move. It’s all I can do to try to slough off this mood, gain some more ‘hunkering down’ as John Clare would put it, get right in there with nature until you disappear. I scramble over the bank a little way downriver and sit on a low outcrop of rock that juts into the water so that it seems to me I am marooned mid-river. To my right the water comes charging even though the level is low; to my left it runs away and the quick shifting current over submerged rocks becomes clear – it is exhilarating, child-like, to be there so close, that plane of existence within reach; something tangible perhaps to break my mood?

And then all this despondency, all this overwhelming bleakness is swept away by the arrival of a Kingfisher. A tell-tale brief flash of white and the bird rests opposite at the base of a scraggy bush overlooking the martin colony. I am lucky, it appears to have no knowledge of my presence so remains close, intimate - I am overcome – my nervous system re-lights, I feel the blood start to pump again, all that leaden weight evaporates instantly; the full knowledge that often nature knows what I need far more than I know myself becomes apparent. I sit very still mouthing silent exclamations, idiot prayers; with the bird as much as I can be, my binoculars fixed on it, my eyes absorbing everything it does, every tiny millimetre of it as it watches the water, curves it’s head round to preen a flight feather or two with the long bill. It sits there for a good minute or two before lifting its head catching sight of something interesting and plunging into the shallows before darting off upstream.

I sit breathless, alert to anything that might herald its return. The martins continue to wheel and dive and now even they appear to glow. I have been offered another chance to believe in what I’ve always known that any time spent close to nature is of far more benefit to me than the struggles away from it, even in the pursuit of one’s goals.

The rain comes in; a fine mist of water and with one tip seeming to erupt from Skiddaw a huge rainbow forms. It is one of those moments when the consummate beauty of things takes hold; but also when its fragility becomes equally apparent.

Cumbria 29/7/06