It’s the tiny
growing awareness of that existence of a miniscule glimmer of light; that dim pinprick
glow in the east that penetrates white tarp walls and eyelids. The cockpit
interior with all its contents gently emerges from the night gloom with the reluctant
opening of one eye; individual objects taking on a form and shape of their own
in the greyness of early sunrise. The headtorch, reading glasses, VHF radio and
charging mobile on its portable battery bank; the red PFD alongside the
powerful hand torch on the opposite side thwart.
Cool damp air touches one’s exposed face, a
drop of condensation coagulates overhead, overcoming gravity. Drip.
Phew……..the
tiny splash on the exposed keelson plank below accompanied by an overwhelming
sense of relief. It missed. A sudden wet awaking averted, but only just!
Semi consciousness
comes with the start of the dawn chorus, well before that dim dawn glow
appears. Our ‘’feathered alarm clock friends’ (RSPB) start early, defending
their territories and singing to attract a mate, for in that cold dim light of
a new morn, effort in foraging is wasted. Insects have yet to warm up, and early
morning flight in this dim, grey light risks attracting the attention of a shadowy, deadly silent, night-time
predator returning from late night-time foray across woods and creek-side
meadows. On these calm, still, mornings, perhaps it is best to stay snuggled in
sleeping bag a few minutes more, listening to the blackbirds, robins and song
thrushes warbling their symphony far and wide across wooded valley. "The avian
Glyndebourne that has welcomed the dawn of our ancestors in similar fashion for
countless centuries" as Henry Porter of 'The Guardian Newspaper’ once put it. “To be alone in the dawn chorus reminds us
of how precious life is”.
Dawn.
The light peach
glow that creeps across side thwarts and along cockpit length. There is no noise
from cars or planes; the sleeping house-boaters moored across the creek have
yet to wake and put their radios on. Such uninterrupted peace is to be savoured.
The once lengthening shadows shorten and fade
as the sun rises and avian chorus reaches a crescendo before dwindling as birds
fly in search of the warmed and unwary insects and worms clinging to stalk, bramble
and soil cast.
Full consciousness arrives with a start! That realisation that high spring tide is turning,
risking imminent and embarrassing grounding on mudflats below. 'All
hands to the deck!' The brain is coerced into ordering body to shed itself of
warm night time attire for the ever so slightly damp day clothing; that same clothing so carefully stored in a bag within one’s bivvy bag to keep it……warm!
Limbs
scramble to untangle themselves from sleeping bag and bivvy, an inelegant ordeal of
squirming and ducking to avoid condensation transferring to bare torso and the
new day’s clothes.
Through the
aft end tarp flaps, the first glimpse of emerging day. The grey veils of night
time gauze retreat, un-swathing the gently flowing river with its tendrils of
fine mist that hang above the warm waters below. The first faint hints of pink
and gold caress the upper most branches of mighty oaks high on valley sides as the
sun’s warm life-giving rays slowly roll down the slopes. "As form and colour of
things are restored, the dawn remakes the world in its antique pattern"; so says
Oscar Wilde.
But for me?
It is as if as one entity, the entire valley heaves a sigh of
relief and contentment. Dawn is bringing her colour palette to reeds and
mudflats, meadows and marshes. As John Ruskin wrote “A dawn,
truly observed, is a moment of birth, a call to action for the day. Let every dawn of morning be to you as the beginning of
life”.
Of course, it
is unlikely that John Ruskin ever had to rush to
