Monday 21 September 2020

Migration








 


They come and they go,  leave and return, sometimes travelling huge distances, scything through the air before arriving at a familiar site, arriving for food, warmth, safety and comfort. They are mysteriously drawn to the place they knew first, where they learned to fly, to swim, to crawl. They can travel through darkness, cold and heat. Then, in this place of ancient memory their offspring are imprinted with the knowledge of the same journey and will be able to navigate the same complex route, following the patterns of the stars, the smell of the rivers, the temperatures of the changing seasons, the many other chemical and geo-physical factors involved, most of them still mysterious. Here, in this special place they too will realise the  importance of familiarity, the value of sanctuary. In turn so will their offspring. And so on, through the generations.

I live quite close to the river Severn, near to a place where a special route is being created to enable returning salmon to continue their journey from the cool waters of the Atlantic ocean, upstream to their spawning ground in the middle of this country. There, often in the exact place where they hatched, they lay their eggs. As the eggs develop into infant smolts the tiny fish leave their freshwater spawning grounds. Their bodies develop the ability to live in salt water as they begin their journey back to the sea. A form of adolescence perhaps? After several years of travelling huge distances in the oceans many adult salmon return to the exact location of their hatching place. Where they die creating more life, but I don't need to emphasise that bit.

Sometimes, not quite so often in the last few years, I can watch and hear the screaming aerobatics of house martins, swifts and swallows who have flown thousands of miles to raise their families here, then to return the youngsters to warmth for winter. In turn their off-spring will make the same annual journey from the heat of Africa and Southern Europe to raise their own young in the cool, damp, insect-rich British countryside. They have left now, as the nights grow cool at the equinox. Not all of them will make it back to their warm holiday homes, many will die, young and old during the course of their extraordinary and perilous travelling.

The frogs hop back to the garden pond where they were hatched. They know where they are in the garden. They know the good, soggy hiding places. They know all about the Spring Frog-Fest, the noise and spluttering excitement, and the tadpoles know too. They come back and join in the next year or so. Those that the heron and the grass snake haven't met.

The family raised in the house come back too, equally attracted by familiarity, comfort, memories and usually at least three puddings at lunch-time. Their offspring are (and hopefully will be in the case of the yet-to-be-met little one) familiar with every bit of this house and garden. They know where their parents' old toys are kept, the best hiding places, the incline where a plastic motorbike can roar down-hill, the warmth of the stone seat beside the pond, and where all the really good books are (answer: in every room).

Like the swallows and martins and swifts, their visits have been diminished this year, and the little one hasn't been here at all. But migration is a part of life for all of us, and the going is as significant as the returning.
Part of life and death.

11 comments:

  1. Lovely post. How lucky your offspring are that you are still living in the same place after all these years. I am guessing the salmon and martins etc wouldn't care who lived there but would come back but the little shoes in the picture told me that it was your offsppring you were really talking about. We have lived in 5 houses since our offspring was born - maybe that's why she is a wanderer!

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  2. We have moved so often, and lived in so many places, it makes my head spin just remembering. Much of it was good but my biggest regret is that my children, and now grandchildren, don't have an 'ancestral" home to return to. I wish I could express all that as eloquently as you have done.

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  3. Marigold: both my sons lived in this same house for many years, and both are now enthusiastic
    travellers. I'm very grateful that they enjoy returning and the area they found so very boring in adolescence is now a source of enjoyment. My younger son's children are now being urged (sometimes protesting) up the hills just as he was in his childhood. My elder son's family is living in Austria and the pandemic has made meeting impossible. They will be moving to Asia when any move is possible. I think the wandering happens because they are adventurous people and citizens of the world. All good wishes to your Wanderer (sometimes also called 'digital nomads'.
    Molly: as with Marigold, 'home' is where the heart is, especially when it also involves being looked after for a while. I'm sure your children and grandchildren would seek you out where-ever you were. I wonder if the salmon and swifts would be welcomed back to the family roost if their parents were still occupying it?

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  4. Oh yes.
    I love this reminded that our 'superior' species has more in common with other animals than we often like to admit.
    And hope your wanderers are able to find their way home to you soon.

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  5. Beautiful. For most, home is where the heart is and where we return, even if just in our thoughts,, for comfort and memories.

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  6. E.C. Thank you for the comment. Yes, all part of a vast pattern, and the more we learn about it the more similarity we see. Yet we are still amazed when we realise the cleverness of insects - what an arrogant bunch we are.

    Starting Over: thank you, too, for your comment. Like a snail we can also carry 'home' with us. at least in memory.

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  7. I can't think of bird migration without thinking of a book from my childhood: Garth Christian's 'Down the Long Wind'. The title's from a poem by Tennyson (Idylls of the King: The Passing of Arthur):

    'And fainter onward, like wild birds that change
    Their season in the night and wail their way
    From cloud to cloud, down the long wind the dream
    Shrill'd; ...'

    Bruce Chatwin was fascinated with nomads, too, and speculated about whether humans were essentially nomadic. Given how I feel when I think of migrations, I think he was onto something. And when I think of that I think of Sebastião Salgado's 'Migrations' and Herzog's film about Salgado, and you can begin to see how migrations connect things.

    Sorry if this seems weird and rambling. It's one of those nights — right on the last of dusk, with the rain pounding so hard I can barely think, so I'm trusting you'll understand.

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  8. P.Pete: Of course (to the understanding) because the whole great mystery of migration seems to contain elements of weirdness and rambling. Beautiful choice from Tennyson. Sometimes it feels as if we're all wailing our way from cloud to cloud, especially at the moment.

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  9. It's all very strange and amazing, isn't it? I am definitely not a nomad, though, and I wish all my children were exactly the same. But at least they're all in the same country.

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  10. My youngest grandson is now eight months old, and I haven't been able really to see him, although my son is assiduous in Skype and phone calls. It's very restrictive with the other two as well. It's such a difficult time for all of us.
    I'm glad your garden is coming along well. We will all have splendid gardens and immaculate homes if this goes on.
    I have been rather nomadic, so I can be blamed for encouraging them. I never dreamed that something like this could happen though!

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  11. These days nature impresses and astounds me as it has never done before. I sometimes wonder if I'm becoming slightly manic in my old age, because I get so excited at its dazzling complexity, drive and mysteries.

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