I FEEL like waxing lyrical today, sitting in a field in Donegal one morning in August. Until just now, the only sound has been a bumble bee browsing the purple clover, a sizeable miracle flying past on his way to who knows where.
The sky is the colour of speedwell, the sun is gaining strength and the wonders of nature are all around, all it takes is time to sit and observe. A robin chirps his somewhat plaintive song, a foretaste of autumn which is still to come but the waiting isn't long.
Questions. If the bee can't find purple clover, will he make do with white? Does he ever mix the two? Why is there a dandelion clock growing beside a dandelion in full, vibrant yellow flower both from the same root system? And where did the swarm of menacing flying ants come from so suddenly?
Far away across the bay, a man begins hammering a nail into wood, my favourite sound in the world: something to do with childhood, I suppose. My memory goes back to Jack the gardener making frames to grow carrots and parsnips: those were the happiest of days for a girl of seven.
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The sound of silence. No other sound not even the wind stirring the grass or the waves caressing the rocks at the bottom of the hill and across the lane. This place can be a torment of gales and big seas, but not today. Today all is calm, but still too early for children shrieking with delight as they run into the tide making ripples on the smooth surface.
Has the world stopped turning? No, suddenly the reassuring buzz of a blue bottle like the demented engine of a young man's fast car. It rests on the dog daisy beside me, explores the yellow centre with a surprising long tongue, his iridescent green back a thing of beauty. Lost in the harebells and heather. Nothing of interest obviously as, like a hovercraft, he rises, pauses and disappears off to another date with destiny.
Four fields away over the rise of the meadow, the white horse, up to his knees in buttercups, blows down his nostrils with a shake of his head. This disturbs two stone chats, who rise up and disappear over the hill.
Looking down into the grass, the early morning sunlight is always a joy. As it hits the dewdrops, there's a carpet of twinkling lights, silver and gold glistening and gleaming – or is it tiny insects, their shiny backs reflecting the warm sun's rays? Their names equally beautiful; the stonefly, lacewing, spring tail, earwig and, at the bottom of the scale of beauty, the terrible tick.
I'm lucky, an elegant long legged harvestman strolls by and two brown butterflies perform what I imagine is a mating dance, flirting and kissing in their silent courtship.
I look out to sea to check if the mermaids are looking into their mirrors as they preen and primp preparing for the day ahead, arranging their seaweed hair to stream out behind them as they swim beneath the surface. Sure enough, right in the middle of the bay, the water is a little choppy: the sun reflects in each looking glass so the sea sparkles with lights.
Someone once said "it's a wonderful world", but sitting on an outcrop of stone in a field in Donegal while breakfasting on brown bread and banana is more wondrous than anything.
The mermaids have dived down and the water has calmed, perfect for the dolphins who might well come and play later today, cavorting close to the shore, smooth bodies rich and shining. I imagine I can hear them laughing – or is it the three children who have just arrived on the far beach? – and in the still air the sound of their happiness is welcome as it creeps up the hill.
Then it's gone. They've had enough, sandcastle building mutes their giggles and takes their attention. Now all is silent again, peaceful except for the bees. The word has gone out: purple clover here, come and hoover up the delicious nectar, friends, enough for all.
It's been a long hard road with Covid and climate change. Frightening. Hard to relax and look forward, it really is one day at a time, if you can manage it. It's important not to show concerns and worry in front of small children. To some degree they will know something is happening, but they must keep positive, after all the future is theirs and they will deal with it.
I think it's a shame we don't listen to young people more, allow them to experiment, to follow their instincts. I remember once when the door of my car jammed, my son, then about 12, said he'd fix it.
"Oh no, you might make it worse, leave it till dad comes home", was my attitude.
"I'll fix it mum, trust me."
I did and sure enough he got out a screwdriver, worked away for a few minutes and the job was done, never to stick again. We were both delighted and I have trusted him ever since.
I employed the same trust in my daughter: she will tackle anything. She's even able to fix my iPhone when it goes on the blink. My hope is that the younger generation will take this world in hand and make it work – with our help.
I hope also they will take time to sit in on a stone in a field where they can listen and watch and let nature calm them and give them hope.
