Dreaming of a time when. . .
. . .up in the woods, we saw a hole in the side of one of the humps and bumps of the ancient people ’ s camp and next to the hole dips and marks in the mud, that came from their feet. Farmer Fidler said that was. . . . . .badgers.
‘You’ll never see ’em in broad daylight only at dusk or in the night.’
One evening. . . . . .we watched the clouds trying to catch the sun as it slipped down the sky. But the clouds couldn’t catch or hold the sun and the sun slipped on and on covering the clouds’ edges with pink and rose and red. . .
We checked our bags and coats and blankets our drinks and sandwiches. Were we really going to be allowed to do this on our own all night in the woods above the campsite?
We would be like. . . explorers! not knowing what to expect not knowing what we ’ d see next.
We would be like. . . the ancient people whose camp once sat in these woods the humps and bumps dipping and rising under the trees.
We would be like. . . us! who knew more about cars than crows more about buses than badgers more about fish and chip shops than foxes.
And we wondered (but didn’t say we wondered) about shadows.
Would we be afraid of shadows in the woods?
Shadows that hide what you can ’ t see. And what you can ’ t see can sometimes be nothing. What you can ’ t see can sometimes be something.
But what?
Only the shadow knows.
We watched the clouds trying to catch the sun as it slipped down the sky but the clouds couldn ’ t catch or hold the sun.
The sun slipped on and on covering the clouds’ edges with pink and rose and red. . .
Up in the woods the light was grey between the trees the bark of a silver birch was trying to shine through the dark; an old oak nodded like someone who ’ s seen it all a hundred times before.
I poked a dead log: a hundred woodlice ran about terrified. We spread our groundsheet on the ground in the old hut.
There was no floor and we spread our blankets on the groundsheet.
I felt a brush across my face. Someone, invisible, had brushed my face with. . . what? a paintbrush? a shoe lace? but then it was gone. . .
I saw what it was. It was whiskery and grey and flapping, moving like paper fingers in a worried way up, then down and round. A moth.
It wanted to brush our faces. You don ’ t know us, I thought. Who do you think you are to think you can brush our faces? No answer.
It was just thinking; a moth just thinking. A moth thinking in the dark. I thought of moths thinking in the dark for thousands of years.
Moth-thoughts gathering in the woods moth-thoughts loving the shadows
There were bats doing their frantic zig-zags, zig-zagging about with their mouths open; gulping anything that ’ s out and about: midges, gnats, daddy-long-legs, flies, wasps.
Bats with their mouths open.
We looked, our eyes were shiny glass beads, following the zig-zags of bats.
Farmer Fidler − whose woods these werekept cats.
They slept in the barn and slinked about nervily, always on the lookout for something to feed their skinny ribs. Such skinny cats. with extra toes.
‘They ’ re all cousins and cousins of cousins,’ Farmer Fidler said, ‘and that ’ s what happens,’ he said.
They filled their days with sleep, lying round each other in the hay, yawning and stretching, sometimes licking each other ’ s faces, sometimes lying so still they looked like it was their last day.
As evening came and hunger woke them up, they prowled round the hedges and ditches, picking up hints of mouse or shrew.
And there was Tiggs doing just that!
Picking up his toes
as if he was walking on hot tiles and not far behind, Rambler.
We looked at each other, we didn ’ t want them there scaring away things we were hoping to see. Their eyes looked like our eyes. Cats’ eyes. The eyes of cats.
The trees stood like unlit lampposts in the street at night.
I thought of the ancient people looking out from their camp. . . . . .and I heard an owl.
And again. A lonely owl, singing, ‘Who are you? Who are you?’
It flew out of a tree looking like a well-fed cat flapping slowly, steadily, quietly through the air. Who are you? I thought. Who are you?
We heard a boom a far-off boom, a boom with no name, there was a flash too.
And the sound of drops, falling on leaves and on the roof of the hut.
The drops came faster becoming like jazz drummers beating the leaves around us. I looked up.
There were gaps and holes: birds and wasps had nibbled at it for years and years. It flashed again and boomed.
I wondered where the animals went in a storm.
Out of the corner of my eye
I saw a shuffling.
A very small old man was looking for his glasses. He turned and I saw it wasn ’ t a little old man looking for his glasses.
It was a badger!
We had talked about badgers! We said we might see a badger! Because when we came here in the day didn’t we see a hole in the side of one of the humps and bumps of the ancient people ’ s camp and next to the hole hundreds of dips and marks in the mud, that came from their feet?
Didn’t Farmer Fidler say that was badgers?
And didn’t he say we ’ d never see them in broad daylight, only at dusk or in the night?
And here we were right now up in the woods and one of them had come out not knowing we were there to see him, shuffling about looking for his glasses. And then another came out too.
I couldn’t see if it was helping the first one look for his glasses or looking for his own. To and fro they went, shuffling and snuffling, sniffing, lifting their heads.
So we sat, not moving a muscle trying hard not to blink and I don ’ t think they saw us.
Well, they didn ’ t have their glasses, so of course they didn ’ t.
That ’ s badgers for you.
On the way back up above was the lonely sound of a baby crying.
That’s the curlew, we said.
Cur-lewww − that ’ s the sound so they named the curlew after the sound, and it had its place up in the sky.
Curlew. Such a lonely baby with nowhere to go.
Then over the trees came a sound.
The sound of the cockerel.
‘ Wake up, everyone,’ it said,
‘ I am in charge of getting everyone up it ’ s my job I was given this job thousands of years ago
I woke up the pharaohs I woke up sailors in ports I woke up women herding goats I woke up children for school in ancient Persia and I ’ m going to wake you up. and nothing is going to stop me I just go on and on and on and on and you are all happy and glad I’ve done this because now the day belongs to you the day is for you to do what you do to go where you go to be what you are. So even if you wanted to doze some more even if you wanted a bit of a snooze now you ’ re ready for the day and it ’ s all thanks to me.’
Hah!
Not content to wake us all up he boasts about it too.
As people stir, the dogs wake up too.
Far off in Farmer Fidler ’ s barn as it was summer, the dogs were sleeping in the barn with the cats but one sound coming from the house Mrs Fidler opening the fridge, Farmer Fidler scratching his head and the dogs were up and ready for anything. Dogs are so hopeful Always hoping that something good ’ s going to turn up a walk, a bone, a pat on the back. And these dogs were the most hopeful of all. They had begun barking calling out:
‘ It ’ s going to be a great day, a great day no doubt about it, a great day we ’ re going for a walk and then another walk and then some dinner
and then a pat on the back and then another walk a chase we like a chase, we do, don ’ t we? and then we’ll get a pat on the back oh yes we like that. . .’
And I could hear them over and over again. Calling out again,
‘ If you ’ re going to get the eggs, take us, if you ’ re going to open the gate take us, we can be really useful like run round and round in circles.
While you ’ re busy, we can bump into you reminding you that you owe us our breakfast, c ’ mon, come and get us from the barn we can ’ t climb out on our own
like those six-toed cats can you have to come and get us!’
I heard the barn door squeal and the barking got even more excited. Had Farmer Fidler come with scooby snacks in his pocket?
We watched the clouds trying to catch the sun as it slipped down the sky but the clouds couldn ’ t catch or hold the sun.
The sun slipped on and on covering the clouds’ edges with pink and rose and red. . .
Now for some sleep.
But what about the owl the sound of the owl
where was the sound of the owl now?
The whole night was in my head one long long night and it was all in my head and. . .