Pan in avian form?

Sometime in the early autumn of 2013, I found myself once again in the small, but extremely pretty and tranquil seaside village of Rockliffe, on the Rough Firth, Dumfries (pictured at right). It is a place of Dark Age hill forts, tidal islands, flotsamfashioned fishing line-haired effigies of local women drowned as witches – and most intriguingly, an area further along away from the small village which seems to be the work of an outsiderartist of fortean bent: colourful chimerical creatures fashioned from branches, stone and rock lurk hidden round every corner.

The reason behind what was now an annual visit to Rockliffe was to meet my father and his musical companion who were playing at the village pub, a seasonal tradition dating back several years, my father being a local folk musician. I caught an early train from Manchester, then a bus from Dumfries, dropping me several miles down the coast from Rockliffe itself early in the evening. Having walked the coastal path before, I knew that I was not well enough acquainted with it to attempt the two-hour walk so close to sunset, so I called a cab to take me the final stretch, and waited at the fork of the road and the pathway down to the coast.

After waiting maybe five minutes I started to relax, acclimatising to the bucolic surrounds and peaceful air and gradually slipped into the frame of mind I come to associate with and seek in such places, where the mind frees itself a little from the quotidian concerns of the city and thoughts start to slow. I noticed a bird circling my head; it was as small as a wren and as fast and acrobatic as a swift. It circled me, ever faster in smaller, tighter concentric circles round my head. I felt it was both preening and joyous, playful and slightly threatening in its impressive display, which lasted a minute or two, the bird gradually widening its arc before flying off.

That evening I sat at the bar listening to the music and idly chatting to my then girlfriend by text, and she reported to me the following: as it was such a lovely late autumnal morning, she had taken an irregular route to work, crossing the playing fields between her house and the local tram stop. Half way across, a small bird had attracted her attention, flying in large circles around her, becoming tighter and tighter as she stood stock still and watched it aiming straight between her eyes before veering, then playfully diving and arcing around her, before slowly increasing the diameter of the circle and eventually leaving. Neither of us had witnessed such avian behaviour before or since.

What I think we both saw that day was the whole gamut of the god Pan’s classic traits – playful, slightly conceited and not a little menacing. In such a setting it’s not hard to believe that the ancient gods still dwell there, and it’s hugely heartening to think Pan would deign to manifest in a suburban playing field. Rob Grolerd Manchester