Bob Bob Bobbing

There are fewer, sweeter things to make my heart sing than the sight of a robin in my garden. The little creatures are so damn cute and have come to symbolise far more than a simple reminder of the beauty of the natural world. My mum, our Joan, passed away last year. In her garden she had a metal robin which she had bought to remind her of her Billy who died far too young and left her widowed and a little bit lost. He was the love of her life and she missed him terribly. Mum fully embraced the idea that robins popped into your garden or appeared on a walk when a lost one was coming to say hello, to remind you that they were still there albeit in a different form, to look out for you and to help you to bear your sorrow. Being metal, this robin couldn’t bugger off whenever he felt like it so she could always see him and give him a smile, a wink or a good old tongue lashing when she felt like it. Robins are clever little birds. They come to recognise your face, your movements, your routine and will come back for more if you feed them. They are fiercely territorial and loyal, as long as you provide the nibbles. Mum loved to feed the birds, so much so that they were in danger of becoming flightless. Nothing went in the bin that could nourish a little pecker. When Mum became ill, she asked me to look after her robin. I brought him back to the Lakes when I wasn’t caring for her and I sent her regular updates as to how he was doing. She loved the idea of him getting out and about, the way she had been so used to doing. His antics and shenanigans became the highlight of my day, knowing that she would have a laugh when I sent her the daily report of what he had been up to. He came swimming with me, ran with me on the Dales Way, cycled to Grange strapped to the handle-bars of my bike, helped the builders renovate our house, did yoga, dug the garden, watched the footy, came to the pub, helped on a  litter pick, bought a scratch card, came to choir, volunteered at Bushy Park parkrun, joined me on walks, had a Thai massage, enjoyed a firepit, came to a concert – basically, whatever I was up to , he joined in and Joan bloody loved it. It became my raison d’être when I wasn’t with her, as I tried to come up with new scenarios and double-entendres to make her giggle.

 To begin with, I called her robin JoanBird with the stress on the Joan because it sounded weird saying it the other way. Bird had been my Mum’s maiden name. She was adamant though. He’s a boy. He can’t suddenly become a girl. Then began a long discussion about transitioning and gender fluidity and ‘birds have rights too, you know’ and the fact that her robin maybe identified as a woman after years of freezing his nuts off in Mum’s back garden. I gave in. He became JoBird – stress on the Jo, and he has remained that since Joan put her foot down. JoBird lives with me now, staring out of the window, overseeing Joan’s recently planted rosebush, a wonderfully kind gift from an equally wonderful friend and robins have become part of the narrative of my life. My siblings have added new members to JoBird’s flock. There are three more robins – Little Jimmy, Jessie and Jackie. There is also a duck, Nurse Duckley. JoBird’s mates are reminders for us that Mum is still with us. There is also a real live robin who visits me every morning and I greet him/her (male and female robins are indistinguishable from one another) with a warm, satisfied smile, as if we are in cahoots with one another. Good morning, Joan. Hello, Joan. Have you been on the bacon rind, Joan? And I really feel it. I feel the truth of Mum’s presence. It comforts me, it really, really does.  I hear her laughing and clapping her hands and cussing the squirrels in her garden for nicking the nuts, scoffing the tulips and wrecking her shed. She has not left us. She is just enjoying a rest in another place and the love is the same as ever.  

JoBird has inspired new travels and adventures since Mum passed away. We are continuing the family tradition which Joan began when she lost her Billy and couldn’t go on holiday without taking a little bit of him along. I am not sure we will be able to match the Bullet train in Japan, or the Great Wall of China where she left him but we are not doing too badly. Joan is admiring the views from the top of Timanfaya volcano, taking in the panoramic vistas of the whole of Lanzarote from the best seat in the house, and today I am buzzing as Joan did her first ever parkrun in Rothay Park in Ambleside. She warmed up with me, ran the whole course without stopping and didn’t complain once about the rain or the mud. 5k is a long way and I am dead proud that at 81 she finally got to do one. She was with me every step of the way and I intend on keeping it that way. You will never walk alone, Joan and neither will we. Norwegian fjords here we come.