The Curlew

[smokingboot]

Saturday was fun. We drove out to the East Neuk of Fife, wandered around St Monan and Anstruther, enjoying a seriously excellent fish and chip lunch in the latter. These old fishing places are so picturesque, I almost want to rent a place on the sea front, take photos, paint pictures, go walking...we did walk a bit. The day toted up about 10 km for me, 15 for R. We suffered later, but not that much later. Went to see a Bon Jovi tribute band at the local rock club; hmm. What do you do if your voice is good but not in the range of the songs you want to sing? I guess you sing them anyway and ignore what anyone else says. I don't know though, when I perform I want to feel good at it.

On the way home, walking hand in hand by the railway an hour off midnight, we heard the most eerie cry repeated. I'm pretty sure it was a curlew, a gorgeous sound in the wild places. I didn't know there were curlews round here. Now, it reminds me of Yeats:

'...I stumbled blind
Among the stones and thorn trees, under morning light;
Until a curlew cried and in the luminous wind
A curlew answered; and suddenly thereupon I thought
That on the lonely height where all are in God’s eye,
There cannot be, confusion of our sound forgot,
A single soul that lacks a sweet crystaline cry.'

But at the time, nothing so deep in human connection struck me. The Old Country rose in my heart with a moment's warning: that is a death coming close. I'm not afraid on the surface cos let's face it, surgery is a tiny risk, but the part of me that walks three feet behind my steps feels disquiet about more than one thing. I am not completely happy despite music and sea and memories of amazing journeys. That's only to be expected and it will change soon enough.