My Sunday Best 07

On the Book of Nature.

The book of nature is a fine and large piece of tapestry rolled up, which we are not able to see all at once, but must be content to wait for the discovery of its beauty, and symmetry, little by little, as it gradually comes to be more unfolded.

- Robert Boyle, 7th Century natural philosopher and chemist

By the time I have climbed the hill, the birds are in full song. Their opening number, wren solo, woke me while it was still dark. How does such a small tuft of a bird project its voice with such conviction? By seven o’clock, I have taken my seat for what is left of the dawn chorus.

These epic love songs sing of turf wars, home making and death do us part. At least, that’s what the experts say. I imagine they communicate so much more. When I listen closely, I hear the call and response of each bird to its mate and I arrange it as a musical score.

Robin and wren sing soprano, blackbird, with her canorous tune, takes alto, chaffinch and great tit are in tenor and wood pigeon carries the bass. There are other birds too, and they provide beautiful counterpoints to the tune: starling is pure syncopation, goldfinch trills at the edges, pheasant bugles and then, like answered prayer, a cuckoo plays hide and seek among the staves.

Cuckoo is a playful songstress, leaving long silences to question whether I heard her in the first place. But I am patient.

When I told my seven-year-old about the cuckoo, he was bereft to have missed it. So, he took a day off school (has there ever been a better reason to abscond?) and we walked a short trail to the top of O’Rourke’s Table. Here, among the bluebells, we found a couple of huge oak trees and settled at their feet.

I wish I could prove that my assumption we would hear a cuckoo meant we did.

Do you need proof?

We sat for half an hour, whispering, drinking tea and eating shortbread, then, “cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo,” rang out from a stand of beech. My son told me it was ‘magnificent’ and we sat a while longer, trusting the game, until we heard her again.

The Book of Nature has been the one sacred text that needs no translation; it’s unfurled without words, composed from an alphabet of seashell and moonbeam, the flight of the birds and even the plundering of nests. It’s readers are prophets and poets, mystics and monastics, Christians and Jews, Buddhists and Muslims, Lakota and Anishanaabe, and those who’d not set a foot in any houses of worship. - - Barbara Mahany, The Book of Nature

The Book of Nature is a gift. The only thing required of us is to stand in the way of it and observe. To be a reader of this text needs no special skill or religious persuasion; there’s no doctrine to debate or rules to follow, no dialect or dress code (in fact, the wilder the better); we come as recipients, in this case, an audience to the greatest symphony never written.

So, set an alarm, grab a flask of something hot and take your seat outside. The first Sunday in May is International Dawn Chorus Day. There are lots of events to celebrate birdsong and I will be tuning into Dawn Chorus on Lyric FM next Sunday. If you’re in Ireland, see here for organised walks to hear the birds and if you can’t bear to get out of bed so early, watch it live here.

Have you discovered anything beautiful in the Book of Nature this week? I’d love to hear about it.

May your Sunday be loud with bird song x