Tag Archives: poo

Natural History Museum at Tring

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?

Seagull

Their raucous, exuberant cries create a hubbub on the roof. Webbed feet actually visible in the half-light through the domed skylight in the spare room. Up there, they joust with marooned, defunct TV aerials that have mysteriously congregated in the lee of the chimney.

Careful exactly where you park your car here – the nocturnal poo deluge can be quite spectacular. A work-horse like mine can take it, but your Merc or BMW may feel demeaned.

The Arctic terns were “bombing” us as we walked along the shore, navigating boulders, cowering with sticks held above our heads to draw their fire. We meant no ill, but they were taking no chances. Perhaps that was in Shetland, where the fake spider in the dark toilet so traumatised me. The sea spray mists onto my face, and my lips taste of salt and seaweed.

The students mark out one metre squares and remove the top layer of turf. Scent of peaty soil and crushed herbs. I’m not sure what they’re surveying, and I only vaguely care. My time moves slowly, happily squandered on wheeling birds and waves breaking over barnacled rocks.

Marzipan

It comes in a brick-shaped block from the supermarket, and needs rolling out on a flour-dusted board. I thump the rolling pin down, ending up with ruts that take subtle coaxing to eliminate. Eventually it’s down to a quarter inch thickness, ready for a first attempt. Too sticky – and with patchiness, it fails to lift from the surface. A crumpled mess.

After some persistence, I can lift the sagging umbrella of dough up and drape it over the cake. It curtains around, spilling out in an untidy skirt. With knife point, I encircle it and gently tug the off-cut, peeling it up into a scrunched-up ball of leftovers. To eat now, sneakily, or mould into cute bunnies and Santa hats? I opt for the former.

The choral music, dragged out of dusty cupboards once a year, accompanies this pre-Christmas ritual. Soon I’ll add royal icing, a tree, a deer, and some chocolate sprinkles for deer poo. And so, a multi-generational tradition is maintained.

The excess of beer in my system dulls my concentration and mildly dizzies my head. Damp jeans from the homeward downpour chill my ankles, and bare feet fear chilblains, hiding under fleece blanket.

Owl

The ruffling feathers in wind. Street lamps flooding orange, tainting the tree leaves. A hand reaching out from the nightmare midnight tree as schoolboy roams alone in that weird educational movie that still haunts me. Screech owl – well named. Ghostly white barn owl gliding over sheep fields, surveying for mice and startling our headlights. In Squirrel Nutkin, what was his name? Mr Grey? Snatched Nutkin’s tail right off, and never gave it back…

Nutkin, nuttiness… peanut butter, caking my palate after an excessive spoonful consumed. I can barely talk. Enunciation! The stickiness of it on fingers that looks disturbingly like shit – but smells better.

The other day, watching the shore birds wheeling around the pier, spinning myself gradually to follow their flight – doubtless looking somewhat crazed. That moment when they all turn, and colour change flicks them from black to white. Suddenly they appear or disappear, merging with darkness of water or brightness of sky, and seconds are spent tracking where they might have trended, before again picking them out.

The pier’s uneven stone surface is treacherous for one with eyes skywards. It’s a long drop to the low-tide harbour water below.

A fisherman on mobility scooter chunters homeward as the light fades, precariously following the smoother path that lines the unprotected pier edge. His companion ducks briefly into the graffitied derelict shelter that stinks – now more – of pee.