The Music of March

There is music in the air, and I find myself longing for spring.

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A harmonious howling

I awake early to the ascent of my alarm. The melody ripples quietly beside me as sleep fades. I turn over and drift back into half sleep to the quiet shhhh of slippers followed by the muffled sound of water from the bathroom.

The creak of the stairs, loud excited barking erupts from the kitchen as the dogs sense wakefulness. I hear urgent shushing in a vain attempt to settle them as they bounce, exuberant, out of of the back door.

I turn over again, drift again back towards sleep as the front door clicks and the car hums out of the driveway.

It’s not long though, before the dogs begin to whine and grumble, abandoned again in the kitchen as the house continues to slumber. The gruffing and grumbling increases its urgency until sorrow escapes, howling heartbreak into the morning silence.

Ok. I am awake now.

Sounds of the studio

The rain patters pizzicato on the skylight as the dogs now blissful, slumber on the sofa. Doggy dreams come and go, sometimes breaking forth into quiet woofs and whines, tails thumping and feet twitching, they chase the squirrels in endless exuberance.

My pencil scritches and my keyboard clicks. I can hear the tumble drier and the muffled sounds of the house while quiet music plays in the background.

The perfect atmosphere for creativity.

Andante down the lane

Too warm even, for the light cardigan I wear, but still too muddy through the woods. We stick to the lane and the path behind the allotments.

I can smell wood smoke in the fresh spring air. The speedwell peeps through the leaves of the lesser celandine along the verges. At first, I think they are forget-me-nots, but on closer inspection, each delicate flower has only four petals, pale blue with deeper blue veins that bleed to purple, as if painted with watercolour.

I delight in the bird song that surrounds us. The robins and the wrens are our constant companions as we walk. Along with blue tits and great tits and sparrows, I recognise their melodies easily.

The Merlin Bird ID app on my phone picks up a symphony of songs as we walk, I am enthralled as I hear a firecrest and goldcrests, starlings, coal tits and dunnocks. A blackcap adds its voice, the northern nightingale. I am elated.

I long for my ears to pick out each song from the cacophony as easily. I harbour a growing obsession each time we go out and on returning home, listening to the recordings, watching the sound visualisation as it scrolls across the screen.

Lesser Celendine and Speedwell in the lane

A weekend waltz to Mum’s

The syncopated beat of rain on the windscreen and the squeak of the wiper blades, their replacement long overdue, accompany my three hour drive.

My arrival is greeted by the frenzied barking of Poppy and the low atonal baa of the sheep in the field next door.

The house is full of music.

The kettle rumbles, the lid of the teapot clicks. The murmur of our voices as we talk.

In every room there is at least one clock. Some tick, some are silent, waiting for the ratcheting clicks of winding before they will tick or bong again.

the grandfather clock tock tock tocks in low uneven rhythm. Its sonorous voice like the heartbeat of the walnut tree from which the clock case was crafted.

Wind chimes hang in the window. I brush them gently with my fingers. They add their music to the tock tock tock of the clock.

In the garden the pond pump hums. The water gurgles down the small waterfall and the fish, startled by my appearance, splash the surface as they swim out of sight.

Bamboo wind chimes hanging from the eaves of the summerhouse clunk and clonk and clatter hollowly in the breeze.

And the birds sing. Heard but not seen a rainbow of finches; a chaffinch, a greenfinch, a goldfinch. Sparrows chatter and a redwing adds its voice to the chorus.

In the evening, there is the sizzle of fajitas, the ping of the microwave, the glug of a wine bottle emptying into our glasses. Later, the click and clatter of scrabble tiles, quiet music and still the tock tock tock of the clock.

I awake early the next morning. We have tea and look out at the morning mist across the fields. A view that seems unchanged these last 40 years.

The ever present robins and wren sing to us. The sparrows bicker, a song thrush trills, and just on the edge of hearing, a ring-necked pheasant crows.

The view from the bedroom window at Mum’s

Along the canal

The weather forecast threatens rain, so we leave early for a walk.

We drive through the countryside and park in the lane by the old Alvecote Priory ruins. Poppy charges off like a small and incredibly hairy brown bullet. I take her picture. I find some snowdrops. I photograph them.

We walk through the woods and around Millichamps Pool. A train whirs past. The path leads around a small hillock; a remnant of the Alvecote Colliery, the spoil heap now covered in trees, reclaimed and made beautiful once more.

We cut across the nature reserve to walk along the tow-path. I am excited to discover the bird songs I can add to my growing collection.

On one side the Coventry Canal, on the other, the river Anker. A pair of Mallards drift along in the water. In the trees, wrens and robins (naturally), more blue tits and blackbirds and great tits. We walk far enough to glimpse Pooley Hall Farmhouse behind the trees before turning back. There is a new song, the melodious chiff chiff chiff chiff chiff of a chiffchaff. Merlin tells me there’s a siskin too, but I cannot pick it out from the clattering¹ of jackdaws cawing from the other side of the water.

We see a moorhen as we return along the canal. Poppy scares it into the reeds with her exuberant attention.

Poppy and the ruins of the Alvecote Priory, a snowdrop, Pooley Hall Farmhouse

Back home

Spring seems to retreat, the warmth of early March dwindling as the start of April approaches. Now it is the wind that howls. Whining through ill fitting windows, gusting and huffing and sighing its icy breath through the garden where the magpies squabble and the wood pigeons coo. It tugs at my clothes and the dogs tug on their leads on our walk down the lane.

The birds sing their arias, the dogs splash through frigid puddles. The sunshine yellow of celandine petals remain closely curled and British summertime begins.

Bye for now,

P.S. The voiceover recording for this letter has been a creative experiment. I have had such fun dreaming up this letter and the sounds to accompany it, and putting it all together to delight you. Some of the background sounds I recorded throughout March, as the pieces of this letter came together; the grandfather clock, the wind chimes, the dogs. Some are discoveries from my internet searchings. I hope that you have enjoyed listening as much as I’ve enjoyed creating.

1. A clattering is the collective noun for a group of Jackdaws.