Charlie Corbett
It took the song of a skylark on a lonely walk to awaken in me nature’s extraordinary power to heal.
IWANT TO TAKE you on a walk with me. It is April in the Pewsey Vale near Devizes. One of those days when the weather is having a crisis of confidence: gnawing its nails and muttering, “winter or spring? winter or spring?” The showers are blustery, stinging my face, and the wind is wickedly fresh – straight from the gut of Siberia. And yet, every so often, a warm shaft of sunlight sneaks up unawares and embraces me like a long-lost old friend.
I’ll set out full of early-spring vigour and stride out through the village and up onto the top of the vale. This vale, the Vale of Pewsey, was one of the primary motivations for my book, 12 Birds To Save Your Life, because it was sitting on the side of an empty hill, amid this ancient landscape, and at one of my lowest moments, that I understood truly, and for the first time, the power of nature to heal.
It was a skylark’s song that had done it. That rolling, tinkling, soaring sound, cascading across the downs as I lay alone, consumed by anxiety and fear for the future. I listened in wonder to a kind of airborne ecstasy being played out 50 feet or so above my head. And just for those brief moments, I was released. Released from the dark thoughts and bruising introspection. For the first time in I cannot think how many years, I just sat on the grass and listened to a bird sing. Such a simple act. And yet so profoundly healing, in a way that words cannot really articulate. And it’s where I have taken you on my walk. Because I know that up here, on this hill, I will encounter so many other friends I want to point out to you: The noble hare sliding gracefully across its landscape ahead of me, or the yellowhammers – nature’s own sticky-toffee pudding and custard – working their way along the hawthorn hedges with their distinctive wheezing call: a little-bit-of-breadand-no-cheeeeeeese.
As I tramp along this path, a stonechat might pop up just yards ahead and inspect me from a fencepost, always keeping just one wary post ahead of me. A kestrel appears overhead on a current of air – like a silent miracle – as it surveys a juicy vole below.
And, as I walk, I will ponder that only a few years ago I was oblivious to this life around me. Back then my walks were functional: a means to a pub end, the dog, or a guilt-driven requirement to stretch my legs.
I could not – would not – see the abundance of life that was going on all around me. Life that could so easily, had I allowed it to, put my own worries into perspective. I thank God, and Mother Nature, that I took the decision to reconnect with it all. Or, I should say, that nature took the decision to reconnect with me.
I am so grateful that I am tuned into the charm of goldfinches that I can see right now, on my walk, feeding on the pasture ahead of me, and the linnets bustling amid the blossom. I’m so glad that when I make my way down this hill I will be serenaded by the song thrush with his cheerful song, that rings out with its melody of hope even on dark winter mornings. A living, singing metaphor.
And then there will be the little chiffchaff singing its happy song at the summit of a tall oak by the lane, reminding me that despite this coldly overcast and scattered showery day, the warm winds and dappled light of summer are just around the corner.
As I approach my back door, I am greeted by a chirruping riot of squabbling house sparrows that erupt from a jungle of unkempt honeysuckle.
It is a sight that never fails to make me smile. And, in the background, a blackbird sings.
These days as I walk, I am no longer oblivious to the wildlife around me. I look up, I look around me, I watch, and I listen. Truly, that is what it is to escape. And I wrote my book to share that with you.