Blackbird

Yesterday was blackbird day. I have no idea of the actual date, or day of the week but I can tell you that it was blackbird day. Walking is still the thing I’m doing. I can see the appeal of a pilgrimage. I understand the strange people, who in grief decide to walk the whole of the UK coastal path: 6000 miles. They pretend they are raising money for charity but as Alex Ellis Roswell said on completing his 9,500 miles (he did Ireland too), “I didn’t realise it when I set off - not consciously- but I guess I was walking through my grief.” I think that’s what I’m doing but I have no intention of raising money or sleeping in a tent. Instead, I’m walking in ever decreasing circles and stopping when the dog gets to the, “That’s it! You’re going to have to drag me!” stage.

I take photos of clouds, pick wild flowers and listen for birds. Yesterday, on blackbird day, I walked 9 miles from home to Woodham Walter, Cocks Clark, Purleigh and back. I ran through wheat fields, scattering bunnies (see Theresa May, I can be naughty too, although I did stay on the footpath. I walked down country lanes that reminded me of my childhood and stopped at a pub for a fizzy water. I nosed in gardens and dodged people riding horses. During the whole walk, I was accompanied by blackbirds.

Blackbirds are underated. People forget about them because they are here all year but they are the best singers. A few years ago I had a blackbird in my garden that learnt the first bar of the Poulenc flute sonata.  The babies start with a ‘peep’ and gradually grow their range. The birds that followed me on my walk had a vast repertoire of song. One, even had a white tail.

In folklore the blackbird is an interesting creature. They symbolise reincarnation and Irish mythology they were thought to hold the souls of the recently deceased while they waited in purgatory to discover whether heaven or hell was to be their fate. Also, seeing two together or having one nest near your house is lucky.