Flocking together

There had been small clouds of what I presumed were crows rising out of the woods with a cheerful twittering. No, my husband said, those are rooks. Crows are usually on their own. Like herons. Obviously they come together to mate, but otherwise they want to be alone, as Greta Garbo didn’t say. So not all creatures on this earth are sociable.

But many actively prefer company. The lambs skitter around in bouncy little gangs; the starlings on the power lines snuggle up and occasionally preen each other. We know now that chimpanzees feel the pain and sadness of the death of one of their own and it’s surely only a matter of time before we discover that other species do too, and more besides. The family, the group, the couple – we humans are not the only species to need the comfort of others. And as for showing off – our own attempts to impress are far outshone by displays in the wild.

And yet it is tempting to imagine that we alone suffer and are transformed by a human condition so profoundly affected by the quality or otherwise of our relationships with each other. Do animals and birds feel lonely? And can they experience an absolute joy transcending all external differences, brief moments when a crowd reaches the perfect synchronicity of the flock.

I missed my walks for the last two days. On Thursday at 8.30 am the Boy and I got on the train to Leeds, a journey of some five hours. We had tickets to see his – and our – favourite band, Maxïmo Park in their last gig before the keyboard player leaves permanently for Australia. Alas, his poor dad had to work, so the responsibility of getting me and the fifteen-year old safely to and from such a big city so far away with all our stuff intact was all mine. I checked the wad of tickets – train and gig – two or three times and the Boy made me check them again.

At 6 pm we wandered out of our hotel towards the venue, which was in one of the students’ unions. The Boy was both thrilled and awed by the city throng – he is most definitely a country lad – the stars squeezed into the gaps between buildings old and new. So much happening, so many people, shops, car parks, pubs and restaurants, and all in such narrow spaces separated by endless streams of traffic. We gawped and gawked and bought colourful cans of Japanese fizzy drinks with manga characters on them just because we could.

I haven’t been in a student’s union for a long time, but nothing much has changed – it’s cheap and cheerful and if you have a dodgy landlord, then help is on hand. Clasping plastic cups, we tip-toed into the hall. Two drum kits sat one in front of the other, silver light casting majestic promise. The room filled up as Cowtown, the support band, came, played their passionate hearts out and graciously left the floor for what we’d really come for.

I distinctly remember the feeling, over twenty years ago, when Celtic scored a goal against Dundee United just in front of me and my boyfriend at the time at Celtic Park. I’m not even a Celtic supporter, but I felt that surge of pure joy. For a split second I ceased to exist as my arms lifted into the air all by themselves at exactly the same moment as everyone else in our part of the park. All because a ball went into the back of the net. What a ridiculous thing to inspire transcendence!

I don’t usually come across these guys on my walks – that would be silly – though I’m often singing one of their songs in my head. Maxïmo Park at Oxford’s Common People festival, May 2018

But there I was again, in Leeds, feeling that same sense that time had stopped. I sang along with every word of the singer’s youthful anger and misery, feeling his heartaches speaking to me and knowing that everyone around me felt the same. Though part of me was really watching my son become transformed, knowing that, since it will be a few years until he is fully fledged, he no doubt has to cross continents of heartache and misery before he makes his own nest. And yet it was precisely those passionate, heightened moments of our own youth, however painful, that was moving the middle-aged section of the audience for whom the first love and the first kiss were decades ago. But we still remember in some wistful place and a poignant nostalgia overcomes us, sometimes to tears.

And then it’s over. We stream out in good-natured order. The Boy is on Cloud 9 and I’m floating there with him. We have photos and videos to show my husband and to remind us of those moments, though it is the place the band took us to on the night that is what really counts.

The next day we take the train home and are back to the quiet hills and the unvanquished sky. The snowdrops have speared through the earth with their vibrant green leaves, a harbinger of the new life to come. A new show will soon be before us, bringing warmth and colour and hope.