A Spring Night in Nature: Then and Now — Stephen Colton’s Timeless Tale
Many aspects of life evolve over time, yet certain elements stay constant. Roughly two decades back, I wrote something elsewhere about a warm night towards the end of April when I immersed myself completely in my surroundings from within my garden.
Condolences expressed for cherished Irish News columnist and nature author Stephen Colton
I used the name of a Kieran Goss song as the title.
Moments in Time
I figured at the time he would agree, since we used to live together back then.
Coláiste Bhride
, Rann Na Feirste, where we would play football together on the local Gaelic field. We often looked back on these memories during his performances at one of his concerts years afterward.
Recently, during the latter part of April, I experienced something quite alike on another mild evening, though this time without Robbie, who was my dog at the time.
Close relatives and acquaintances have likewise moved on, yet the event was strikingly familiar as being surrounded by nature once more allowed me to reconnect with and appreciate my five senses.
A solitary blackbird perched atop the beech tree and sang loudly until its frantic ‘pink pink’ cries signaled the approach of an impish magpie, which has built its nest close by. The blackbird was clearly agitated as it persisted in voicing its objections, eventually attempting to chase off the larger bird.
At the same time, the regular pair of collared doves remained undisturbed by the chaos around them, continuing their peaceful coos. Also noticeable were some busy blue tits darting in and out of the nest box, likely tending to newly hatched offspring. Meanwhile, the melodic tunes of the robin and dunnock could be heard as they made their calm arrivals.
I was intrigued by the subtle fragrance of flowers from the nearby barberry and lilac bushes, a draw for bees and other insects during springtime. To be honest, my senses were also captivated by the hint of blackcurrants emanating from a glass of deep ruby-red Chianti, which tickled both my nose and taste buds.
After Robbie passed away, I received a lilac plant as a token of care. During this time, my newly adopted dog, Oisín, would frequently seek comfort and affection through petting and stroking.
Once more all five senses were awakened, enveloped by what Yeats called the ‘moth hour.’ The nearby pipistrelle bat commenced its nightly flight through the garden and adjacent plots, signaling the end of the day.
Contemplating these matters, I was struck by how drastically life can transform, yet numerous events or routines persist unchanged, particularly within the natural realm. There, cycles continually recur with nothing but their exact scheduling setting them apart.
Carpets of bluebell and wild garlic smothered the woodland floor in Castle Archdale as typical sounds of late spring, singing blackcaps, willow warblers and chiffchaffs rang out
Much has changed for me in the intervening years, but little has changed in the natural world in spring at this small home patch; the blackbird still performs its ‘evensong’ and the pipistrelle continues its figure of eight flight around the house in search of prey items.
Blue tits and great tits energetically carry on with raising their chicks, as familiar scents drift through the mild night air. This particular April evening brought together moments of permanence and transformation momentarily intertwining.
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Strolling through the grounds of Castle Archdale a few days later, I was greeted by vibrant carpets of bluebells and wild garlic covering the forest floor—a quintessential scene of late spring. The air buzzed with the melodies of blackcaps, willow warblers, and chiffchaffs. Swallows swooped and dove amidst skies teeming with insects, while swifts announced their return with dazzling feats of flight. These sights served as poignant reminders of nature’s unending cycle.
I recall John Montague’s poem,
The Water Carrier, where
He describes his numerous travels during youth in the countryside of Garvaghey, “over stones covered with slime” to fetch “water from the spring,” and whilst doing so, “breathing in the moldy aroma of unharvested berries.”
At last, he speaks about “a life imbued with memory” and going to “take the waters there… part dream and part reality”; recollections from instances in time akin to a tranquil evening in April.