A Beautiful Dawn Chorus Guided Walk
With bacon sandwiches.
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This weeks musings are based purely on a memory. It is a very vivid memory and one that leaves me wondering why it is this particular one that has stayed with me over the years. Do you get that too?
You know the kind. The one where a a fresh, crisp early morning revokes the memory from a childhood adventure that was something quite ordinary but felt extraordinary at the time?
I spent many of my childhood years in Oxfordshire. We moved there when I was six years old and left when I was fourteen. I have bookshelves of wonderful memories and I miss it terribly. I don’t know if it would be the same living there now as a parent myself, but I certainly enjoyed it as a pre-teen, wannabe actress and book worm (we lived opposite the village library!)
My primary school held an event every May: “The Dawn Chorus”.
The dad of one of my best friends at the time, organised a guided walk in some local woodland (I should probably try and remember the name of where exactly it was but as I mentioned this is based purely on memory, however reliable that may be), that set off at 5am, lending an ear to the dawn chorus as the world was waking.
Just as the first touches of light would be dappling on the horizon, my dad and I would climb inside the car, wrapped in our layers because we were southern softies then, and drove along deserted country roads, watched from the hedgerows by small eyes and curious noses. We would pull up in the car park along with a small gathering of other children from school with their elected parent who braved the early morning and “out of school” social event.
My friend’s dad who led the walk was called Robin, which I have only just now realised the irony.
Robin led us all down familiar paths, as we picked our way over brambles and sticks, a carpet of bluebells met us around one corner and buds on the trees were starting to open up. And the whole time our ears were in tune to the calls, shrills and purrs of birdsong. I hung back with my friend as we listened to her dad talk and giggled with excitement about being up so early and outdoors, at one with nature. It was like the reverse sleepover; the excitement of being awake before the rest of the neighbourhood. We probably also gossiped about school chat but those conversations haven’t stuck as much as the FEELING of being in that wood.
After (perhaps) an hour or two of walking, and when the rays of the day were really well and truly up, we all jumped back into our cars and drove to the school.
Bacon sandwiches (maybe sausages and beans too?) were served in the school hall and my friends and I, giddy from our early starts, ran around the empty classrooms in the way in which was always thrilling, being in the school with no teachers.
After that, my dad and I drove home and I imagine by teatime I was in a massive grump from having been up so early. But the memory has stayed.
Now, whenever someone even mentions the words: Dawn Chorus, I am immediately transported back to that annual event, attended with my dad in the first light of the morning.
I’ve mentioned before about how memories are great prompts for writing. But they also play a huge part in how I bring up my children and how I imagine the memories that are being made for them. This happens mostly around seasonal events, such as Halloween, Christmas or birthdays.
Our first Christmas as a family of five, during lockdown.
My husband gently teases that I go overboard at Halloween. I overthink Christmas and I can make birthdays last for longer than just one day. Because that is how I remember my own childhood and because we no longer live in the place I grew up, it seems even more important to me that I keep that spark from my childhood alive ✨
I love this memory Beth and that sounds like a magical adventure to have as a child. I have a memory of dawdling home through my village with the sun shining and cuckoos calling out every so often. Every time I hear a cuckoo now it reminds me of those uncomplicated free times before I had to take responsibility!
Very evocative. Thanks for sharing.