The cuckoo arrived in late April in the Teifi valley, where I live. Some said it was behind schedule. Others said it arrived on time. Regardless of who is right, the bird’s appearance was greatly anticipated by the community—and then celebrated with fanfare, as a well-loved guest.
For a few months, my neighbours and I will share our valley with the cuckoo. We will hang our clothes on the washing line, dig out weeds in the garden and tend to our vegetables while listening to its distinctive call.
I’ve learnt the cuckoo arrives from Africa. It never rears its own young, preferring to lay its eggs in the nests of other birds, such as the reed warbler. Cuckoos are known as brood parasites, as when the cuckoo chicks hatch they throw out the chicks or eggs of the hosting bird. While unpleasant for the reed warbler, this is rather comical to watch as the reed warbler is tiny compared to the gigantic-looking chicks of cuckoos.
I’ve lived in Wales long enough to know when the cuckoo will depart. One day, sometime in June, we will no longer hear it. And then we’ll take a moment to imagine its journey back to the plains of Africa and marvel at the designs of nature.
What if we all took a little more notice of such beginnings and endings? Perhaps a little celebration when a day ended well? Or a bit of fanfare at the end of a torrid week that nearly broke us, but somehow didn’t? It might alter our perception of what it means to live a big life.
When I moved to rural Wales from London, people at home assumed that I was packing up a big life and swapping it for a small one. But living here has challenged my idea of what a big life really is.
In the countryside, things have simply changed in proportion. What used to be small details, like the wonders of the natural world, have become central. It feels as though the settings of my senses have been adjusted, so that I am more attuned to what I can hear, see and feel.
This is what happens when we make big changes. The very texture of our lives changes—the contrast is turned up, the saturation doubled, or the brightness lowered. The voice that I used to hear bellowing “mind the gap” on the London Underground is now quiet. The train timetable that I was a slave to no longer dictates my life. Instead, the call of the cuckoo tells me the time: it’s spring.
Writer Anaïs Nin said: “Life shrinks and expands in proportion to one’s courage.” It is a quote that regularly entered my head when I first moved from the city to a rural life. It takes courage to adjust with the settings of our lives—to realise that we can actively shape how we see the world, that we can look to new horizons. Our lives are big or small depending upon whether we dare to face our fears and live differently.
No, I haven’t swapped a big life for a small one. My life continues to expand by learning about such creatures as the cuckoo and looking at the stars free from light pollution. Nature’s place in my life has simply become more prominent.
As I write this column while sitting in the garden, I hear a plop coming from the pond a few metres away. It is the sound of a frog diving back into the water after my cat, Cranberry, disturbed it. It’s a pleasant sound, and it lingers for a few seconds. You’ll notice it if you pay attention.
