In Episode 28 of his new book, author Julian Roup listens to a dawn chorus and considers the sunset of his life during Covid-19 lockdown.
In case you missed Episode 27, click here.
Life in a Time of Plague
Sussex, 3rd May 2020
By Julian Roup
What a morning chorus it is on this International Dawn Chorus Day. I wake at 5.20am and listen as one solitary bird takes centre stage against a soft background chorus. I wish I knew what it is, but sadly don’t. To me it sounds like the rolling silver tinkling trills of the caged canaries my father kept in his bedroom; it is an impassioned song that seems to last minutes on end without a break. The bird creates its own ‘wall of sound’, much like the effect that made the name of record producer Phil Spector, who was found guilty, years after the fame it brought him, of murdering actress Lana Clarkson.
My morning minstrel sings on and on, and I sleep again. I wake once more at 8am this Sunday morning and go down for coffee. I am glad to have found myself among an audience of millions listening to the bird concert, uniting us all, despite being locked down in our homes. Thank God for song.
And then by one of those uncanny coincidences, I turn on the radio and the first item I hear on BBC Radio 4’s Sunday programme is that Germany plans to reopen its churches for regular services, but there will be no singing allowed. The hymns, I imagine, will have to be internal. I wonder how the Germans will take to that; with discipline and good humour I suppose.
I don’t feel that great today, despite the wonders of the dawn chorus. My knees ache from our recent walks and my energy levels are down. Instinctively, I breathe deep, testing my lungs. They seem fine, but I am losing fitness as I am not currently responsible for looking after Callum, mucking out and riding each day. One more month of this lockdown will leave me with unwanted weight gain. It’s a fine judgment call, but I think I need to return to my normal schedule as soon as lockdown ends.
I drag myself away from these depressing thoughts and look through some photos I took of the spectacular Rhododendrons over on the Forest yesterday when we went to visit Traveller. They are like a 15-foot wave of hot pink crashing onto the green turf. They are a reminder of Britain’s empire, when explorers and botanists brought every conceivable kind of plant back to Britain from every corner of the world in the 18th century. The Rhododendrons came from northern India, the high country near the Himalayas I believe, and today they grace so many British gardens. They are the national flower of Nepal. I think of them as Britain’s equivalent of South Africa’s Bougainvillea in their Mardi Gras Fiesta; hot reds and pinks with occasional whites, cream and yellow. Two strange names, Rhododendrons and Bougainvillea. And speaking of strange names……….
Boris and Carrie have named their son, Wilfred Lawrie Nicholas, after his two grandfathers, and the doctors who saved Boris’ life, who were both called Nick. Dear God! What are the chances of the lad calling himself Wilfred when he gets to 15 years of age?
And thinking of age and change, it has not passed my own internal clock that from today I have a fortnight to go till I reach the grand old age of 70. How did that happen? I had certainly not planned on it, and yet here I am, haunted by the horror of Covid-19, very much wanting to make it to my birthday without falling ill or dying. Why? But something in me says 70 is a better innings than 69. It does not leave you looking quite so short-changed. Sixty-nine may have its raffish supporters, but 70 has more gravitas.
Just recently I helped to spread the ashes of my 90-year old friend, Simone Deschamps, under a Rowan tree on Ashdown Forest. Simone, who had been so desperate to cross the Styx for the two years since her dog died. Age has very little to recommend it. It’s a bitch, and yet, and yet, we cling onto life for fear of something worse.
It is such a strange business, this business of age. If one is lucky and you are in reasonably good physical and mental shape, there are still pleasures to be had, for sure. The beauty of the earth, the warmth of the sun, the company of one’s children and grandchildren if they still speak to you. There are books and art and beauty, there is food and wine and travel. But there is also a cruel reality: one needs to master new things, among them humility and caution.
You have to be consciously cautious all the time of the danger of falling over, and humble in the face of needing help for a variety of things, or to be taken somewhere, once you can no longer drive. Or (if you are me) be shown how to manage airport check-ins or supermarket self-service checkouts.
And if you are a man, your relationship with half the world’s population, women, changes too, it has to. What may once have been seen as charm or banter or even flirting are now unacceptable. Nobody wants to be seen as a dirty old man, so you edit everything you say, and work hard not to offend. You don’t wish to appear ridiculous. And yet all those things you felt at 20 are still there, but those feelings have outlived their usefulness. Your romantic inclinations, your gallantry, are now a danger to you.
You worry as much about living as about dying. A major concern is money. Will you have enough money to see you through to the end in a manner to which you have become accustomed? Will you end up impoverished under the roof of a relative who is not delighted with the deal? Or in a retirement home that gobbles up your diminishing assets (and its residents, as we’ve seen in this age-focused pandemic)?
I know Simone would have been delighted to find that suddenly she had a guaranteed one-way ticket out of her room in the care home. That said, this death by Covid-19 is not the ‘Old Man’s Friend’ of Pneumonia; it is an unspeakably horrible way to go.
Younger people ask if they may use your first name, and some don’t even ask and use it anyway, which feels like a brutal loss of dignity. More dignity goes when you have to plan each trip and outing with toilets in mind. Being comfortable for six hours between pees is long gone, now you have to plan on two or three hours if you are lucky.
Hair loss is never easy for any man and now it goes fast and is replaced by hair sprouting from your ears and nose. A visit to the barber ends these days with a candle flame held to your ears to singe the hairs away – pretty alarming the first time it was done.
You forget the name of books and films and actors, sometimes even friends and acquaintances. And the fear of Alzheimer’s haunts you. You struggle to keep up with ordering prescriptions, and each night struggle to open foil wrappers as you count out the handful needed to keep you alive.
There is not much good to be said for getting old. And getting even older is worse. So why fear Covid-19?
We need to arrange things better at this end of life. People need to be able to control their own destinies and not need to drag themselves off to Switzerland when they want to call time on living. Each of us should be free to choose when we have reached the bus stop where we wish to alight from this journey. It would be a source of great comfort to have the means within your control to do that, to have a last meal with loved ones and then to bed, to sleep, to dream, never to wake, to pass into the great unknown of death at a time and place of your own choosing.
I certainly don’t want to have bloody Covid-19 whip me off to a mass grave. So the fight goes on. Forgive my morbidity.
This downer comes at a strange time, because yesterday was in fact a red-letter day for me; I received an unexpected gift from the universe, an early birthday present. And a very special one indeed.
Late yesterday afternoon, I checked my email and there was a message from Alec Hogg, the editor of BizNews in South Africa. He said he would like to publish this journal, a chapter each day. Reading his words, the world stilled, everything seemed to slow down and once again I felt that joy that has meant so much to me, to have one’s writing acknowledged and to be published again.
Alec wrote: “Read the early chapters today and really love the autobiographical style, gentle pace and beautiful writing. As a starting point, are you comfortable for us to start with Ch1 and publish a chapter each day? If so, am happy to kick off on Monday. Please confirm so that I can start to set it up.”
I am so moved I can hardly move. It is 16 years since my last book Boerejood was published. A very busy and eventful decade and a half, in which I did not find the time or space to write creatively for myself. And now this.
I have been in touch with Maggie Davey and Bridget Impey, my publishers at Jacana in Johannesburg, to say that Alec had expressed possible interest, and they were supportive. This is exactly how my first book, A Fisherman in the Saddle, found a publisher in Jacana, by being serialised first in South Africa’s Country Life magazine.
I send word to my long-suffering sister Jay in Cape Town, my first reader, who has been ploughing through these pages from day one, just as she did for my first two books. Her reaction is congratulatory, but wise owl that she is, she warns: “There will be those who politically disagree with you. Be prepared for both bouquets and brickbats.” I know she is right, but this book is motivated by my most profound beliefs, and for once I have not finessed my feelings but tried to tell it as I see it, warts and all.
Jan is delighted and offers to edit the book for me. She is the best and most meticulous editor and helped my other books greatly. I am grateful.
As we walk Gus down the lane before supper, she takes my arm tightly in hers. “Happy?” she asks, smiling. As a writer and author herself, with three books to her name, she does not really have to ask. She knows.
Click here for Episode 29.
