Читать книгу A Walk in the Clouds - Kev Reynolds - Страница 18

7

IT WAS THE NIGHTINGALE

In the summer of 2000 I was alone in the mountains, drifting from France to Spain and back again – climbing, walking, checking routes for a new edition of my guidebook. In high places there would be the croaking of choughs, a tuneless sound that was nonetheless an integral part of the mountain scene. Yet one evening, down in a valley, a much sweeter sound romanced my senses…

Driven from the mountains by a storm that washed the hills and threatened to drown valleys I came to an empty campsite below a plug of rock, upon which was crouched a tiny, cracked Spanish village – a dozen houses crowded among cobbled alleys, a church and a view of the High Pyrenees brooding under an evil sky. Although the storm rattled as I pitched my tent, the site was safe from flooding. The rain eased while I cooked and ate my meal, and only a light drizzle was spattering the flysheet when I drifted into sleep.

Suddenly I awoke to a sound made in heaven. Behind the tent a nightingale warbled and trilled its liquid song; a song that had no end, no sign of ending, it rose and fell and rose again and again, tossing notes to unseen stars as the hours moved toward midnight and beyond. I crawled out in a vain attempt to see the source, but all was dark save for the distant flash of lightning behind black, shapeless mountains. The nightingale cared nothing for that far-off storm, but sang as though all of life depended on it.

Next day the storm was forgotten, and the sun scorched a cloudless sky as I scrambled past waterfalls born of yesterday’s deluge and looked on peaks dusted with overnight snow that would melt by midday. Then, as evening drew in, I was seduced back to the nightingale camp and stretched out on the grass beside my tent as darkness fell. It was then that the nightingale returned and in an instant his melodies rippled through the valley.

Hour upon hour I lay, reluctant to sleep. The moon-free night was filled with beauty, and shortly after midnight the solo became a duet as a second nightingale copied the song from a tree across the way – note for note, phrase for phrase it echoed the melody in perfect pitch. Nightingales in stereo, sufficient to melt the coldest heart, the birds were romancing one another, and their love duet filled the night with what seemed like audible honey.

Eventually I drifted into a light sleep. When I woke again around 4am they were still at it! But now they were growing weary, the pause between each new melody a little more prolonged than the last. Yet still they sang until the very first stain of sunrise stretched across the eastern hills. Only then did the birds give their throats a rest. And I…well, I gave up on sleep and headed for the mountains once more.