Halcyon Days

On Friday 10 October 2008, a procession of over a hundred children and local residents made its way through the Haymill Valley nature reserve in Slough, in the culmination of Outdoor Culture's first public art project. The two children leading the parade wore cloaks of felt kingfisher feathers - every child had made one - as a gesture to welcome the Millie Kingfishers.

We were blessed with a perfect, bright autumn afternoon. The children were resplendent in kingfisher feather headresses, and the happy noise of drumming filled the woods as we strolled along the ancient mill stream. Along the way, we passed this installation of copper kingfisher amulets - every child had made one - spinning and glinting in the dappled sunlight.


Eventually we arrived at the weir at the far end of the Millie, where one day a bridge over the stream will complete a circular walk back through the other side of the wood. Here, the two leading children removed the cloaks they were wearing and we placed them over the wings of Pippa North's brilliant steel sculpture.

The Greek myth of Halcyon Days tells the story of two lovers, one drowned and the other so torn by grief that she took her own life. The gods pitied them and transformed them into kingfishers, granting them the Halcyon Days of peace and calm in which to raise their young.

Now the Millie has a new pair of kingfishers to watch over it. I hope that some of the children who celebrated with us will love this special place and look after it too. The project has given them a personal connection with the site and its wildlife: time will tell whether or not the seeds of stewardship take root and grow.

Pigeon stew and cramp balls

I've just returned from a bushcraft course that I set up with my friend Andy Noble of Nature's Craft http://www.naturescraft.co.uk that turned out to be one of those special weekends that only come along every now and then.

Andy's the expert, I just brokered the experience for an interesting mix of artists and environmentalists, and did my best to make sure that everyone had a good time. The latter turned out to be a pretty easy job - the group got on famously, and Andy and his brother Paul kept everyone happily busy with lots of entertaining bushcrafty challenges.

Over 2 nights and 2 days, we lit fire by friction (well, some of us did), made debris shelters, learned how to use our knifes (proudly worn by all), made string from nettles, carved spoons, butchered a pigeon each (nearly all of us, including one vegan) and slept out in the woods in our tents, under tarps or in the debris shelters we'd built. Probably my last sleep-out of the year without a tent.

I did my culture bit on Saturday night by playing a few songs round the campfire, before the baton passed to the multi-talented and very funny Duncan McAfee for some poetry and more music, until eventually we all ran out of tunes and alcohol. Paul Noble said it was the best night out on a camp he'd had in ages.

On Sunday, a few people found cramp balls growing on dead wood - also known as king alfred cakes, these black fungi are wicked for fire-lighting. Once dried, they catch easily and burn slowly, so they're good as coal extenders, transferring fire from tinder to kindling. They smell divine when they burn, but why are they called cramp balls? Puts you off eating them - like death caps, I wonder whether there's a clue in the name.

Preparing the pigeon was easier than I expected as a squeamish veggie. Less slimy than the trout I dealt with last time I was in these woods (see July's post), my bird was fluffy and heavier in the hands than I thought it would be. A small incision under the breast bone and the skin and feathers just peel away, leaving the breast eaily cut out with hardly a drop of blood. Rosy got well into it - she was looking for the girl-guide within but I think she found a full-on cavewoman instead.

For some reason I don't mind eating animals I've cut up myself, and I seem to have developed a meat habit when bushcrafting. My wife thinks I'm weird. Maybe it's like this bloke I know who only smokes in pub gardens. I tried a drag on a cigarette the other day, after not smoking for 7 years, out of curiosity. It was awful - really obviously poisonous. Bushcraft is much more addictive.

Climbing into a real bed on Sunday night felt a bit odd - other people on the course said the same thing. Houses really over-do the shelter thing most of the time. Back in the woods, I was cosy and warm and at home on the forest floor. Does this imply a fickleness in our sense of home, or a timelessness?