When you get to 93 years old, the number of springs you have left to enjoy is diminishing.
But here I am again. I have made it. Having survived the incessant rain and freezing cold, I am relishing the soft sunshine and tentative blue skies. I have always been quite glad when winter is over, but now I am thrilled that I am still here for one more reunion with the snowdrops, daffodils and the blaze of blossoms whose names I don’t know.
I think of myself as a city girl but, inevitably nearing, as I am, my departure, I find myself needing to touch base with nature. This weekend I travelled to Eastbourne to the splendid Towner art gallery. Way back in the 1960s I had a little caravan parked nearby on a field beside the estuary of the Cuckmere River. At the time I was appearing in a hugely popular comedy series, the Rag Trade, and it was my first experience of being recognised in the streets. I was overwhelmed by the loss of my privacy. My caravan was my secret haven. In the Towner there are paintings by Eric Ravilious of the Seven Sisters cliffs, where I used to roam unwatched, and they capture exactly the serenity I found there: my whole mind and body comforted by the grass under my feet, the smell of honeysuckle, the taste of salt on my lips, the sound of the sea and whispering air. I felt safe.
Sadly, in my London house I am deprived of the lovely sounds of spring. The crow that I befriended during lockdown to ease my loneliness, or one of its descendants, is still strutting round my balcony, greeting the beautiful blossom and fresh scents with frightful, presumably happy, squawks. The sparrows and blue tits aren’t allowed to land and chirrup. A robin will occasionally stand up to him, and have a bit of a sing song, but eventually they give way to the force and threat of the crow.
But this morning, the crow met its match. An exquisite yellow butterfly fluttered in for a visit. It had a good look round, kissing the flowers, floating around the head of the outraged crow. The posturing, aggressive bird could not compete with the gentle butterfly. I flew with it, somersaulting, swooping.
I have asked the butterfly to visit me again on my last spring, so that I can float with it away from the ugliness and aggression of our sad world, into whatever happens next. I hope the crow won’t be lonely.
