I

There’s glass between us, and sometimes I must squint past the reflections to see you. But I feel a softly increasing sense of wonder, sadness, bewilderment as I encounter each of seemingly thousands of British birds. Resident. Seasonal migrant. Vagrant. I imagine your calls and the rustlings, flutterings, hissings of your movement. A vast community that co-exists with mine, doubtless exceeds mine, and which somehow I’m daily almost oblivious of. What societies and histories and great sadnesses are part of each of your worlds?

Here’s the Great Northern, oddly chosen star of the eponymous novel. Perhaps Ransome met with you here.

I move on to the photography exhibition and the scent of blood and snow, the red fox with hunted arctic fox dangling from its jaws.

II

Imagining the squelch of mud and the rattling wheels of the zebra-drawn carriage. The odours of peculiar and exotic poos from around the world, concentrated in an English park. The odd spectacle of an elegantly dressed gentleman attempting to ride a giant tortoise.

In the dingy cafe, the what’s-that-called, the chocolate “biscuit” that’s full of cherries and candied peel and raisins, chews sweetly. I have to rip off morsels with my teeth, almost twisting my neck to achieve it – perhaps like an animal gnawing at its prey. The smell of coffee signals a welcome boost to a hungover morning.

Indoors is full of mundane shuffles of museum-goers visiting each exhibit, and fragmentary conversations as adult excessively interprets for child.

I look through the glass into a bewildering, awe-inspiring multitude of British birds, and a quiet disquiet, a gentle sadness, a long sigh, begin to be felt. How is it possible to have lived on these islands so long, without any real meeting, knowledge, appreciation?