The Uncertainties of Geese

JOURNAL ENTRY

3rd September, Thursday

“Awake to a jewelled morning
 Fresh washed in last night’s rain.
 There are puddles along the towpath
 And glass-like rosehips glisten
 In smoky hedges of old man’s beard.

Last night I listened to rain
 Drumming on the cabin roof
 And its hiss upon the stirred water
 Of the canal.”

[MUSIC]

WELCOME

The moon is in its final quarter and about to sail the cloud studded sky. It's a still night of bat flicker and melting shadows. The night air shivers with the cool chill that promises dewfall. Darkness wraps its arms snuggly around the boat.

This is the narrowboat Erica narrowcasting into the silent darkness of early autumn to you wherever you are.

Greetings! You made it. It is so lovely to see you. I was hoping you'd be able to come. It's a glorious night, but there's a chill in the air, so why not come inside where it's warm and cosy? The kettle is on the boil, the biscuit barrel is on the side, there's a chair waiting especially for you. So, watch your head on the hatch and welcome aboard.

[MUSIC]

NEWS FROM THE MOORINGS 

Proper British summer seems to have at last arrived just in time for the slow revolve into autumn! It might be a bit late, but it is welcome. Days of sunny spells, showers, and towering cauliflowering clouds, or skies built from great concrete slabs of grey; the rumble of thunder and lightning flickering across the clouds in evening light. The thrill of chilly air at first and last thing. It’s been good to once more smell rain in the air and lie in bed listening to the familiar rattle and drum as a heavy squally shower passes overhead. Parts of the towpath are now getting too muddy for just sandals and the other day I had to dig out my gumboots for the first time for goodness knows how long. I clumped alongside Maggie, heavy footed feeling like an unsteady foal testing out his legs for the first time. It was our first walk, and, traditionally, that is the one that I let Maggie choose where to go (as long as it wasn’t on safari around the bins and waste collection point – which, in all truthfulness, if given her way, would be the only place she’d ever go. Remembering before we left, that for our last walk along a certain favourite section of the towpath, of having to hop over some growing muddy patches and puddles (yes, we even have a few standing puddles again!), I was congratulating myself on being so well prepared. And wouldn’t you believe it, but Maggie decided, for that walk, to stick to higher ground and meander across the close-cropped grass of the sunny and, by now, bone dry sheep fields. Following her in my wellies, I felt I was perhaps coming over as being a little over dramatic in my footwear!

I’m not sure what conversations are like off the water, but the folks I meet are all still quite welcoming to the rain. We look up at the sky through rain beetled brows and grin. We’ve gone passed the ‘Gosh, what is this strange stuff falling from the sky?’ and ‘Yay! I feel like dancing in it’ quips (a marked change from our usual summers when the strange thing in the sky refers to the sun), to a more resigned ‘We certainly need it.’ However, in the last couple of days, I did overhear one wry comment; ‘Do you think that it is still too early to begin complaining about the rain, again?’

Strangely, despite the rains, the water has dropped a little over the last couple of days. Nevertheless, the level, locally, still remains healthy looking. Even so, the CRT have decided to extend the closure of this section for another few weeks. It will be reviewed again in the middle of this month.

It has been amazing what a couple of days of more persistent rain have achieved. The fields and a number of the grass banks which looked absolutely dead have already begun to green. In fact, a couple of the sheep fields look more green, the only beige and tans, the wash of the long grasses. Plants and even flowers have begun to spring back to life. Dandelions, and yarrow, trefoils, plantain, nettle, thistles… I could go on and on! That pent-up life that fuels Lammas growth, I guess must have to go somewhere. The insects and the surviving butterflies are enjoying it and making most of the still warm weather and new sources of nectar. 

The moorhen is still sitting on her nest. The water has now risen high enough to touch the bottom of her nest. I imagine, that is why her mate has been to so busy collecting extra reeds and rushes to use to line it and bring it above the water. I am keeping my fingers crossed that the eggs will hatch before the canal opens.

[MUSIC]

CABIN CHAT

[MUSIC]

THE UNCERTAINTIES OF GEESE

One afternoon last week, I was sitting on the stern with my mug of tea and watching the wind sculpt patterns upon the water, when I became aware of a flight of geese. A skein of geese on the wing, like ducks coming into land or rooks doing just about anything, is always a cause to stop whatever I am doing (in this case, staring at water while my tea goes cold) and focus. They were flying just above tree height, following southwards the line of the canal. They were just the other side of it. At the time, I didn’t think much of it. Teams of geese quite frequently take this line, in one direction or the other, or crisscross flight paths. It was the joy of the sound and the spectacle, rather than novelty, that first drew my attention.

They had all flown past, when I was aware of a slight escalation in their honking calls. By this time they had dipped out of sight, when to my surprise I realised that they had suddenly wheeled round to circle back and were now heading for our stretch of water. I counted nine of them, in loose single file, gliding steeply in on partially outstretched wings, then the flare just above the water surface, bodies at 45°to the vertical, wings and tails spread to the maximum, webbed feet extended in front of them, riding the last few inches of turbulent air dancing on the very edge of a stall, and touch down, either singularly or in pairs. Their arrival celebrated in the glitter of broken water and light.

It’s not uncommon to have geese dropping by. From time to time, I have seen geese here. Sometimes alone, and, at least once, a pair. I suspect that this would make a good spot for them. A couple did try to join us a few years back. This was when we had the little swan family, and they were given short shrift by the very territorial cygnine matriarch. In fact, just a few weeks ago, another pair (I assume it was another) came and spent the day down here. I wondered if they would stay. But they flew away in the evening and since then, until today, haven’t seen them again. Boaters who have been around here longer than us, talk of a time when geese where here. So this wasn’t uncommon, but, for me, what made it so unusual was the number of them. I have never seen so many arrive at once.

For a while, they clustered in a group, just beyond the point where the start of the boats are moored. On the edge, as is fitting, of our civilised world of painted colour and diesel, the fretwork of rope and chain, and noise.

They bobbed and paddled in a tight knit group. Feeling the water movement with the same skills that they felt those of the air. And yet, there was also something endearingly a little lost about them. The feeling you get when you enter a party at its height and realise you know not a single person present There was something about them that reminded me of school children meeting together in the playground after the long summer holiday, or fellow travellers, tipped out of an aircraft into a land foreign and exotic. Taking their bearings. Relieved that they are not quite alone. They were too far away to hear the softer vocalisation, the communal chatter, that I was certain was going on, but a few louder honks carried down the water to me.

After about seven or eight minutes, one of them peeled away and immediately was closely followed by the others. Six joined it. Two, hung back. As the six paddled away, I could hear raised chatter. Single file, ruler-straight; executed with same precision we are used to seeing in their echelon flight formations. It’s the same dynamics, communication, shared intentions, understanding, self-awareness of personal space and its place within the community. But this, was also even tighter; they swam as a solid unit. Each goose almost touching the one in front and behind. I would have loved to have known if the leader was the same goose that led them in flight. There was no sense of rush or hurry, but one of deliberate progression. From where I sat, it was difficult to tell, but I would hazard a guess that their line of travel was equidistant from the boats on each side. This was indisputably calculated and tactical.

The lead goose cut the path, six others following, almost martial in their appearance and bearing. A parade of soldiers, backs ramrod straight with the dignity and weight of their office. Heads held high, swivelling in synchronisation with one another, first to the left and then to the right. There was never a moment when at least one goose was not looking to the left or to the right. Slowly, they passed each boat. Each detail I was sure being measured, evaluated, understood in terms of their own lived worlds. On they came. There was something inexorable about it all. There was a momentum carrying them that was heavier and more profound than simply that of their body weight. They came to the end of the boats they stopped just below the bank and regrouped.

For a while, they once more trod water. Slowly, they drifted back up, once more between the boats. Whether by design, instinct, or just sheer coincidence, but each goose was oriented so that each faced a different direction. Together, they commanded a 360° panoramic view of the canal and everything on and around it – and I was very much aware, that that view included me. I was becoming, for a short time at least, part of their world. 

Ostensibly silent, but clearly something was going on. Once again, I got that feeling of being thrown into an alien environment and not quite knowing what to do, where to stand, what to look at, where to put your hands, who to smile at. For the first time it struck me that even wilder souls, at home in their natural world, can feel out of their depth, the awkwardness and discomfort of feeling misplaced, a little lost; feeling as if… as if they… don’t quite belong, yet.

Perhaps, that was what made this whole scene so powerful and poignant to me. They felt the way I do. That feeling, sixteen again, at the school disco, in my new checked sports jacket (Foster’s ‘young men’s range’), skin tight trousers, and a purple butterfly-lapelled shirt carefully arranged over the jacket’s collar, smelling powerfully of Brut 33 and cheesy Wotsits, with bird’s nest hair that defied the comb, and feeling that you wanted to be sick. Yes, that feeling – I know it well. When your hands grow three times their size and knock over bottled pop and are impossible to fit into any of your pockets. Who knew, geese can feel this too? Maybe, anyway.

There was sporadic but at times intense calls between them and the two geese down the water from us. As time went by (a good 45 minutes), the seven moved down to where the bank sloped more gently to the water. It was where Maggie went for a swim when it was hot and is also where a lot of the local ducks roost and spend the night. A couple of geese scrambled up onto the bank and began preening. The others (of that seven) swam alongside, beginning to explore the terrain on a seemingly more ad hoc, individual, basis. The separated two remained at the other end of the stretch.

Slowly, ducks began to emerge. When the geese first landed, I wondered how the ducks would take it. But as things worked out, there were only a couple in the area and one of those was the rather timid female who is essentially ostracised from the others.

Maybe word got round. They congregated in shifting groups. I could recognise some familiar souls among them. The group of seven, born earlier this year. Pretty much full grown and attaining their adult plumage, losing their juvenile blueish tinge to their beaks. Sometimes, Mum still swims along with them, but generally they have struck out on their own. A tightly knit sibling gang that know the power of numbers and are not slow in using it. The gang of youths that hang about in town precincts, all noise and bother; ‘get out of our way. Our lives are important.’ Muscling in whenever food is found. The mother with her still quite young brood of two. She’s ferocious and will brook no impinging on their personal space. The chippy adolescent males, brash with the insecurities of youth and hormones. Best of mates one moment, worst enemies the next. The drake with the bright orange bill, unsure, circling in the side lines. Such a tumultuous mixture of very strong personalities and playground politics.      

They continued to gather, clearly unsure, aware that some shift had occurred in their world; some tilt to their horizon. More flew in. Some slowly drifted towards the bank where they swam slowly beneath the geese, literally testing out the waters. The main group were on edge, testy with each other. Frequent irritable clashes exploded with ill-tempered quacks, flapped wings and rough water. Tension played across the water, splitting and fracturing the group.   

Eventually, a few ducks made there way onto the grass and slowly wandered down to their roosting spots. At each approach, a goose moved towards them. No outward aggression visible – so far as I could see – but their physical presence was enough. The ducks moved away. Sometimes dropping back into the water.  

For a while, it looked like a stand-off was occurring. Although heavily out-numbered, the advantage seemed to lie with the geese. The ducks swam aimless up and down and between the boats.

The stand-off was at last broken when one of the boaters, walking their dog, happened to walk past the point where the geese were encamped. As a single body, they all took to the water. With that, there seemed to have occurred some subtle shift in dynamics. Tension, among the ducks at least, appeared to have disappeared. They disbanded into pairs and small groups. I was aware of a couple reasserting their position on the roost spot. The geese took on that slightly awkward, displaced feel again. Once more, undecided about the next move.

Conversation between these seven geese and the two up water grew louder. A series of honks and squawks. I’ve never been in a goose council before, and I’m not even sure that they really exist, but this certainly felt like one! What were they ‘saying’? What things was I missing? What did this whole scenario look like to – or, perhaps, feel like to them? Do we hold something in common, these geese and I? The experience of uncertainty? Indecision? Dislocation with my environment? I am no longer watching creatures alien to me; I am looking deep into a mirror. The boundaries forced by ideas of species erodes and blurs.

And then suddenly, the two geese took off, beating down the length of water between the boats, before rising sharply into the sky. They headed south before wheeling around 180° to fly over us to the east and head off northwards – the direction from which they had all initially come. I could hear their flight-calls as they disappeared over the whale-back hump of Horse Hill.

Later in the evening, I came out again onto the stern deck, half expecting to find that the remaining seven geese had also flown. But there they were, floating centre stream just up from the boats, where the pair had previously been.

The ducks, still on the alert, but a little more like their old selves, continued about their duckish business. We were sharing a brew with our neighbour and watching the sun begin to slowly descend in the west. Talk turned to geese and the pros and cons of having them as near neighbours. He saw many, we saw some disadvantages, the ducks, I am sure, saw only disadvantage. We were half-waiting for another contingent to wing in, there is a large community a mile or so upstream and I suspected that what we were seeing was a group of youngsters forced to move out trying to establish territory of their own.

As the evening grew on and first the starlings, then the jackdaws and finally the rooks were beginning to stream their way homeward in the gathering dusk, there was a sudden eruption of water and goose song. We all looked up. The seven geese, lined abreast across the water, were beating their way towards us. The water foamed and sparkled as they became airborne. Diamond and red-gold drops falling like diamante crystals from feather and feet. A tight grouped echelon formation, leaving very little airspace between wingtip and wing tip. ‘It’s like watching B52s take off’ our neighbour, an ex-forces man, exclaimed. It was. It was somewhat majestic, powerful, heart-stirring and exhilarating. In a world of wonder, this was one of the most spectacular. The wild call, the siren wing-song as wind whistles through their flight feathers, wings sculpted by wilder skies; the synchrony and the beauty, the precision and the skill; mastery of the elements. As one, these seven individuals, also wheeled round, tucked tightly in behind the lead goose, and headed back north. The sky in the west was turning to copper fire as I strained my ears to hear their wild and lonely calls.

This week came with the news of the death of Wendell Berry. His is a voice that we have desperately needed to hear and it will be sorely missed. However, I think his poem ‘Wild Geese’ would make a fitting and apt tribute.

Wild Geese

[READING]

SIGNING OFF 

This is the narrowboat Erica signing off for the night and wishing you a very restful and peaceful night. Good night.

WEATHER LOG