The Restless Cuckoo

ribbon-weavers & fairy-guardians

The path beside the old canal at Dilham, Norfolk, 5 May 2025

Hello friends, and welcome to this Full Moon in Scorpio edition of Bracken & Wrack. And not just full moon either, as here we are at Old May Day according to the Julian Calendar. Look around you and you will witness the season exactly as our pre-1752 ancestors did.

It’s hard to know where to begin this time. After hesitating on the edge of the wheel, spring seems to rushed in so fast that it’s already leapfrogging towards summer. Yet the young leaves know nothing else but to unfurl and shake themselves, fresh and vivid against the deep azure skies. In the damp pasturelands, virile reeds seem to swell overnight, thrusting upwards as if to pierce the blue canopy above.

May celebrations have been in full swing, seeming to unfold along with nature’s joyous song of wildflower and elder musk. Traditions like maypole dancing, Morris dancing, mummers’ plays and May folk-carols (of which there are many - carols aren’t confined to Christmas as the word describes any song once sung door-to-door) are ritually enacted as they have been for generations.

Last year I made a short video called Marking the May. If you’re up for a little more revelry and would like to take a look, here it is:

Speaking of song, dawn chorus through the open bedroom window has reached a crescendo and resounds each morning along the blossom-bedecked hedgerow.

Come queen of months in company

Wi all thy merry minstrelsy

The restless cuckoo absent long

And twittering swallows chimney song

And hedge row crickets notes that run

From every bank that fronts the sun

And swathy bees about the grass

That stops wi every bloom they pass

John Clare, from ‘May’ in The Shepherd’s Calendar

In fact, there are so many swirling ribbons to weave in that I think this issue will have to tell many of its tales through the photographs I hastily snapped along the way. Much richness was missed by my lens, but still I hope I’ve managed to bring back a May fairing or two to provide a little sunshine and warmth for the heart on chillier days.

In this edition of Bracken & Wrack:

• A Traditional May-tide: maypoles, mummers & folk-carols

• Poetry by John Clare

• Among The Rustling Reeds: the story of a fairy canal-keeper

• Magic Happens: the tale of Cuckoo Bridge

Making the May Buns, 30 April 2025. Twirling the maypole ribbons into shape is fun :-)

The dough needs to rise again before baking, 30 April 2025. I gave the recipe for these, naming them ‘The Cuckoo’s Revel Buns’ two years ago in In Apple Blossom

The next morning, 1 May 2025, I took warm May Buns and a flask of hot chocolate up to St James’ Hill, high above Norwich, where the Golden Star Morris and Kemp’s Men danced in the May Day sunrise

The view from the dancing ground towards Norwich Cathedral, 1 May 2025

The young girls whisper things of love

And from the old dames hearing move

Oft making 'love knotts' in the shade

Of blue green oat or wheaten blade

And trying simple charms and spells

That rural superstition tells

They pull the little blossom threads

From out the knapweeds button heads

And put the husk wi many a smile

In their white bosoms for awhile

Who if they guess aright the swain

That loves sweet fancys trys to gain

John Clare, from ‘May’ in The Shepherd’s Calendar

Flowering rush beside the old canal, Dilham, Norfolk, 5 May 2025

AMONG THE RUSTLING REEDS: the story of a fairy canal-keeper

‘Sorry to bother you’. The young man grinned apologetically as he approached the patch of grass behind the van where we had set out our lunch of olives, hummus, oatcakes and apricots - a veritable feast - on our woven blanket. The man wore an open shirt and shorts, some of the first we’d noticed this spring and a welcome harbinger of warmer days to come.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen a paddle-board … umm … well, paddle I suppose you’d call it? It’s a long shot but I just wondered if someone might have handed it to you to look after?’

We shook our heads. Sadly, we couldn’t help.

‘It was only twenty minutes ago. I came back as soon as I realised but I can’t find it anywhere. Of course, I asked Martin first. If anyone would know anything here, he would.’

I’d have understood immediately who he meant, even if I hadn’t spotted the two of them deep in conversation before the paddle-board man strolled over to us. But until that moment, I had had no idea that name of the self-appointed guardian of Ebridge Mill’s name was Martin.

I felt a pang of surprise and an irrational sense of disappointment. In some ways I would rather not have discovered that someone giving every impression of being a twinkly-eyed elf had a seemingly ordinary human name.* Surely he had some appellation of the Otherworld like TomTitTot or Billywix? Well, maybe he did, and Martin was the name he chose to go by in the mundane world.

Yes, I had noticed the young man, eyes shaded against the sun, talking to Martin who was sitting in the driver’s seat of a white car, perhaps, as in fairytales, to eat a hunk of bread and cheese or a packet of sandwiches tied with twine. That in itself had come as a surprise. I had imagined the ancient canal-keeper living right there on its banks among the rustling reeds, or perhaps in a tiny cabin in the woods overlooking the mill pond.

Martin is a part of the place, ingrained and inseparable from it in my mind. Whether he spends all day every day here I don’t know. But I have no doubt at all that every regular visitor here will have passed the time of day with him many times as he moves, hobbling a little awkwardly, from group to group. Often I’ll look up to see him leaning forward and nodding vigorously before throwing his head back in laughter. Then his brown sinewy hands will move over the top of his stick to steady himself before the next anecdote arrives.

He has plenty of time for stories to show themselves and to be gathered into his bindle** (a new word for me and maybe for you?). Whether or not he ever leaves the place, clearly he’s already in position early in the day. The first time we met Martin in late winter, he told us he often breaks the ice for the hardy band of early-morning Saturday swimmers who meet here.

When the first residents of the converted watermill with its apartments overlooking the picture-postcard canal exchanged contracts, I can’t imagine they realised that they would be signing up to such colourful views. At that time, just about the only activities within sight of their windows would have been those of a keen group of canal enthusiasts taking the initial steps towards restoring the historic waterway and mill basin. Weekend volunteer work-parties saw sludge and weed cleared, the old lock and side weir renovated, overhanging reeds cut and stacked.

It must have seemed idyllic. And it is. The North Walsham to Dilham canal, once part of the working scene here and plied by the old sailing barges known as wherries, is the only canal in Norfolk and the restored section now makes a perfect playground for swimmers, kayakers, wildlife watchers, paddle-boarders and picnicking families. Not to mention, breakfasting wanderers ;-) But, as we learned from Martin that day, being a location ‘just the right distance from town’ the car park has been known to host some more dubious goings-on.

When our elf-friend told us that he’d retrieved eighteen empty gas canisters from the car park hedge I was appalled at the thoughtless littering of the place but also assumed that they’d been discarded after al fresco cooking sessions or a series of brew-ups. It didn’t take long for my naivety to be dispelled as apparently gas canisters are sniffed in the same way as glue and are just as addictive. Martin made a tolerant gesture. ‘Well, they’re young and there’s not much else for them to do’.

That Martin is known and held in high regard by the owners of the mill apartments is obvious. His faery presence must be hugely reassuring as he moves quietly around the site, noticing everything, having a word where needed. The residents once asked him to sort out some anti-social behaviour and, he told us with a twinkle in his eye, he had done just that. He’d explained to one group of youngsters that they were being watched AT ALL TIMES and there hadn’t been a scrap of trouble from them since.

I even think he murmured something about a background in the special branch of the police, although looking at his wildwood-gnome appearance, it must have been a long time ago. Or - more likely perhaps - in another dimension. Now, his face is tanned as an acorn and his eyes glint knowingly under strands of dapple-grey hair. His lopsided gait is unmistakeable. As is the way that, robin-like, he cocks his head to one side while bending over his stick either to recount a tale or to collect another.

Of course, he was already canal-side this morning as the black van reversed onto the most coveted stretch of grass. Here, steps lead down into the best spot for swimming. We knew the water would be freezing but we’d decided that today’s mission was to have a quick dip - the first of the year - before a hot drink and picnic lunch.

We assembled the pack-down chairs and set out our base camp behind the van. It really was the perfect spot. As we shed outer layers in preparation for the quickest immersion that could possibly count as the first swim of the season, Martin limped over. He was smiling - approvingly, I hoped. As he greeted us I felt his warmth and was quite sure he’d remembered us and the painted van from our previous encounters. We explained that it was our inaugural dip and that he shouldn’t expect more than a few seconds of spectator sport.

We were lucky, he told us, as earlier that morning the canal basin had been choked with waterweed, and he’d spent an hour and a half pulling it out with the model boat community who meet there every Sunday morning.

Now, the murky waters were clearing and we were about to reap the benefits of his diligent care for the place. Leaning over his stick he watched intently as we gingerly descended the steps, in my case shrieking a little as the icy water rose up my legs. I told myself that a few strokes definitely constituted a swim, and I counted 20 before hauling myself back up into the unexpectedly strong sunshine

What better moment to get out the ukulele? All was quiet except for the gentle chatter of families. Three children were running around, taking turns to fish for treasure with a magnet. Several paddle-boarders splashed softly and one or two couples were out with their canoes. The scene conveyed the simple joys of sun and water and time spent with loved ones, and for a moment we were unsure about strumming the first chords and breaking into song.

‘Tell you what, let’s just do Country Roads before lunch.’ It’s the first one we learned and probably our most assured. I always love how the harmonics between voice and ukulele blend and strike against each other in the open air, colouring wherever we are with new shades. Writing the first lines of a new story.

As the first notes sounded I stopped thinking of our music as shattering the peace. Rather, it seemed to be absorbed into it. I looked across at your fingers finding the chords as I sang my favourite line ‘Dark and dusty, painted like the sky …’ and felt acceptance by the spirits of water and reed.

I’d been too self-conscious to look beyond our rainbow-skinned bubble as I sang to the April day, but now there was the sound of clapping and a ‘Bravo’. Just beyond the lock gates, Martin was leaning on his stick, the knuckles of one hand clasped over the other. Clearly he was happy with this - possibly unusual - turn of events.

‘Don’t stop now!’ came an amused voice as you were about to zip your ukulele back into its case. Your fingers patterned themselves into the sequence of chords that lead into With Or Without You. That’s another good one for us. The key is mostly very comfortable for my voice which is far more alto than soprano, and as a big U2 fan during their 1980s glory days I know the words well enough to give them full expression.

So, With Or Without You it was, and more thin high clapping. Then you really did put the ukulele away, and the long-awaited picnic in the sun followed. We’d called across to Martin that we’d be playing more after we’d eaten. This style of picnic necessarily takes longer than a simple packed lunch in a tupperware but as I savoured each bite I reflected that it repays the trouble many times over.

After we’d cleared away, out came the ukulele again. By this time Martin had ambled across to chat with a family further along the bank, before making his way back over the gravel to that incongruous white vehicle where the young paddle-board man later intercepted him.

Thinking that the canal guardian perhaps had a liking for the music of John Denver, we did Leaving On A Jet Plane, and then Scarborough Fair which is a favourite of mine, even though I always wonder whether my voice will hit that ‘sage’ in the chorus without cracking. At some point Martin reappeared, and just as quietly moved off again. There were new arrivals to appraise, or maybe to catch up with if they were regulars.

If ever a place was possessed of a genius loci, Martin is it. I’m convinced that his shade will be hobbling lightly, Tiddy Mun-like, among the reeds when his earthly body is no more. I imagine his presence floating in the mist that lies softly over the water before the sun breaks through.

Or perhaps he’ll return as a ghostly swallow, like the ones we watched, entranced, as they swooped and darted over the surface of his beloved Old Canal.

Sunset over the canal at Ebridge Mill is always lovely

*Well, I say ‘ordinary’ (with apologies to other Martins!) but when I told my daughter this story, she immediately said that she actually does think of Martins as fairylike. Firstly, she always looks out especially for the returning martins each year, enchanted by their magical flight and ways. Also, she has a friend who changed her name to Claire E Fairy (try saying it) who married someone with the surname Martin and decided to be Claire E Fairy-Martin. So, fairies and Martins run together in Emily’s mind, and why not?

** If you’ve ever wondered whether there’s a name for the cloth bundle of possessions tied up in a knot and carried over a stick that you see in fairytale illustrations, so did I. I checked, and there is. It’s a bindle.

Willow and wildflower crowns for the Fairy King and Queen of the May, 3 May 2025

MAGIC HAPPENS: the tale of Cuckoo Bridge

A couple of weeks ago I was shocked to see an online headline ‘Photographer snaps globally threatened bird flying over the [Norfolk] Broads’. The fact that the Broad in question was Hickling, a stopping place on the long walk to Great Yarmouth I’ve been trickling into these last issues of Bracken & Wrack should, perhaps, have been pleasing.

But clicking on the headline and reading further I was taken aback to find that the rare bird in question was THE CUCKOO! A volunteer photographer for the Broads Authority had ‘spotted the cuckoo' which is now on the Red List for UK birds, meaning that it holds the highest conservation priority, with species on this list needing urgent action.

Sadly I can see all too clearly how this may be happening (at least partly, as I know there are other factors globally) with our government seemingly more interested in swathes of new housing and roads, not to mention the massive infrastructure required for offshore wind farms here in Norfolk - than in the decline in wildlife. Unimaginable loss of habitat has been caused and, if anything, is accelerating.

For me, like most of us, hearing the call of the cuckoo has always been the most potent sign that spring is truly here. It felt surreal that the author of this short news item thought it necessary to add, ‘The rare bird is often recognised by its song’, ‘The song of a cuckoo resembles its name ‘cuck-oo’ and ‘The bird is most likely to be seen from March to August’.

I had, of course, noticed that hearing the cuckoo had become a less frequent treat. It was always a seasonal experience to cherish, like dancing round the maypole, but in recent years the sound had become ever more jewel-like. It wasn’t until last year, though, that I discovered the saying,

‘Wherever you hear your first cuckoo, you will hear it in the same place or with the same person the following year.’

I only heard the cuckoo twice last year and I do remember exactly where I was both times. The first occasion was during a beautiful blue-sky day last May in a hired canoe on a quiet stretch of the canal. Tiers of fluffy white clouds were reflected in the ripples and the first water lilies were opening to gold, while slender green willow leaves ran their tips over the gleaming surface. What could be a more perfect setting?

The second time I heard the cuckoo I was walking down a track towards an ancient caravan tucked into the hedge and its bird-like inhabitant. It’s a story you can read in full in This Flushed October, if you’d like to know more.

Until last weekend I hadn’t yet heard the cuckoo this year. The tone of this article suggested that I would have to wish extra hard, but then I thought that perhaps no further excuse was needed for us to go back to the canoe hire place some sunny day very soon.

In fact, the matter was taken out of my hands in the most magical way.

Finding ourselves in Ely and wondering whether there might be anywhere to have a quick river-swim (having started the ball rolling at Ebridge - see above) a quick search only found one recommendation on the River Ouse. A swim-spot named, romantically enough, Cuckoo Bridge. Looking at the map, it was clear that Cuckoo Bridge was only a short walk away from where the van was parked up so we decided to walk along the river bank to take a look.

Unromantically, we were warned against swimming by a passer-by who spoke of the decline in water quality and advocated showering straight afterwards and/or not breathing for a while after immersion. Cuckoo numbers, it seems, aren’t the only part of nature suffering at our hands. Hastily changing our minds about swimming, the scent of hawthorn blossom along the river bank still invited a wander, as did the sight of the first wild roses and elderflowers.

It was towards the end of the short stretch that things became confusing. Surely this workaday industrial area couldn’t be the gateway to Cuckoo Bridge? An act of faith was required, but as we passed staff car parks and goods vehicle entrances, a seeming miracle occurred.

‘Listen!’ I clutched at your arm. ‘Can you hear that? The cuckoo!’

Oh yes. I promise this is a true story. Our first cuckoo of the year, sounding over and over again in the willows. Invisible but unmistakable, as is the way with these mysterious birds. And then, our faith was rewarded by the return of the river, the sight of a bridge up ahead and a carved wooden plaque confirming that this was, indeed, the place.

There was not a soul about except us and the cuckoo, who kept up their echoing call over the spreadeagled waterlilies and sunlit ripples. Oh and a trio of Canada geese who seemed to be engaged in an elaborate game of ‘three’s a crowd’. Certainly no-one swimming, despite the glorious weather, so I think we probably made the right call. It was enough to be there, imbibing May’s majesty.

Back home in Norfolk between the heath and the sea, I haven’t heard the cuckoo again. Perhaps if I gave the name Cuckoo Bridge to the little bridge over the Otter Stream things might be different?

I’m glad that our Victorian Yorkshire wise woman didn’t live in times when the cuckoo was listed as an endangered species. Certainly she would have found it beyond belief. In Apple Blossom, published two years ago, included a round up of all the cuckoo-related folklore I could glean, including several pieces supplied by the wise woman herself. If you’d like to read more you’ll find it here.

One element of cuckoo lore certainly gives pause for thought. In Claire Nahmad’s Earth Magic, along with snippets of traditional wisdom we hear of the cuckoo’s widespread association with country fairs. At Heathfield Fair in Sussex, the Old Woman who has guardianship over all the cuckoos lets them out on 14 April each year, perhaps in her guise as goddess of the land. The Old Woman controls the seasons, and she ‘releases cuckoos in plenty if she is in an amiable mood, but only a few if human beings have raised her anger; she thereby confers her blessings either abundantly or frugally.’

Needless to say, I have been thinking of things I might do to please the Old Woman just a little, like litter picking and treading lightly on the earth and making sure to notice and revere the small beauties all around us. Maybe even writing about them can make a tiny difference.

I want to make the Old Woman smile. After all, what is spring without cuckoo call?

Cuckoo Bridge over the River Ouse, Ely, 10 May 2025

Sadly I have run out of space this time for a B & W recommendation! I have a lovely one lined up for our New Moon edition though, together with an associated recipe, so do please join me again for that.

Until then,

With love, Imogen x

Maypole dancing at Geldeston Locks Inn, Norfolk, 4 May 2025