Theupsideof down

‘SEE that little dark bird over there?’

‘Yeah’

‘That’s a Tern, a really unusual bird, it’ll probably be gone by the time we get near.’

‘Will it?’

‘It’s probably a baby.’

‘He looks pretty normal to me, just a little grey bird.’

‘You have no idea how rare these birds are, wow look at that, it’s a Herron!’

‘Oh yeah, the one with the long neck.’

I am pulling my trousers up while wading in the shallow waters of the Kaats Strand. Wexford bides its time silently across the river.

There appears to be three levels of sound, the subtle buzz of small insects, the high-pitched song of small birds and the cawk of something large. A peaceful haze hangs in the air, and I seem to be able to appreciate it more than usual, my mind is not over-run with why I shouldn’t be here, or why I should be elsewhere doing something useful.

Up ahead, the butt of the old Bridge sets a marker on my bearings. Indeed this was the place where my brother Paddy and I would Huckleberry Finn the mornings during our summer holidays as children. We would dig ragworms here and play at fishing, it didn’t matter that we caught nothing, it was a glorious world, and we were free to frolic in the sun. It’s a sensation that rarely happens in adult life, but here it is happening to me now, and I am quietly surprised.

We have a brought couple of crusty rolls, some Wexford Cheese and a flask of Colombian coffee; they sit by the wall beckoning. We had to dip our toes in the tepid water first; it feels like some kind of cleansing baptism in this odd time. A middle aged couple fly by on the upper road, they are whispering, these days everyone talks softly, afraid of attracting the unwanted intruder, although it’s not drawn towards sound, is it?

To my surprise, there is concrete seating lined up along the wall, it discontinues abruptly and falls away like it has been worn down by the tide, or by time.

‘This used to be a popular beach one time ye know.’

‘Look the Herron is taking off, how beautiful.’

It truly is, with its massive wingspan, it barley has to flap in order to ascend. I once had the opportunity to see a stealth bomber fly over the Hudson River in New York as part of some military thing, such a strange sight, silent as a bird it passed over, seeming to float rather than propel. This comes to mind when I see the Herron glide away.

When I saw the Stealth, I was convinced that it was some kind of outer space technology that had been pilfered from that rumoured space ship crash in Roswell New Mexico. But looking at the Herron, I am reminded that birds are the original inspiration. Mind you I wouldn’t even notice if it weren’t for Clare, she is my eye on nature.

‘Look at these little red flowers, what are they?’

‘They’ve always been here as far as I know.’

‘They are so beautiful.’ ‘I suppose.’

Clare thinks that we are surrounded by such wonderful wildlife, she is shocked at how blasé I am about it. But because this is a time of halt, I find my mind slowing down enough to see what she means. We sit with our backs to the old wall, and eat bread and cheese, washed down with coffee, while the bird ballet goes on before us, and wild red flowers push through the sea grass.

This was the place where my brother Paddy and I would Huckleberry Finn the mornings during our summer holidays as children