ONCE UPON A MIDNIGHT DREARY
Many of you will recognise today's title as the opening line of that most Halloweeny of classic poems, THE RAVEN by Edgar Allan Poe. If you haven't read it yet, it's readily available online. Get comfortable and treat yourself. It's not an easy read – don't skim it – and it's not for everyone but if you "get it", if you have access to that darkness in your soul at which it probes and tickles, then it's incredibly worthwhile. Mr Poe gets to the heart of loss, darkness and fear. It's one of the most depressingly beautiful things you'll ever read.
The subject of Poe's masterpiece is Corvus Corax, a Common Raven, and, quite unusually, we've recently had a couple of these magnificent beasts visiting us at our Old Moor reserve. At first glance, they can be mistaken for a Carrion Crow but as soon as they open their beak there's no confusion at all. The Crow says "Caw". The Raven's call is much deeper, a big bass "Bronk!". It's the sound of nightmares.
We do a few nighttime events throughout the year at our Old Moor RSPB reserve. Lantern trails, theatre groups, astronomy demonstrations, that kind of thing. I'd urge you to come along to some if they interest you in the slightest. Apart from all being excellent evenings out, they all have one thing in common; they all allow access to some of our property after dark. And it's a whole different place when the sun's gone down.
Old Moor is a wetland reserve. It is, primarily, a soggy, damp place. You don't want to wander from the paths (and we don't want you to, please and thank you). A few steps away from the safety of the walkways there's mud, water and ooze. We deliberately keep it that way as each little change of saturation makes the perfect home for some creature who in turn adds to the rich tapestry of our delicate wetland ecosystem. It's an absolute palace for them but it can be quite unpleasant and unpleasant for an innocent human wanderer trying to make their way back to the Welcome Shed.
Our most common weather at this time of year is steady drizzle, that persistent dampness in the air that isn't quite rain but is nowhere near dry, but that's not the kind of weather we usually associate with Halloween. It's like when you think of Christmas you don't immediately picture that it's likely to be rainy in nature. Truthful or not, we link Christmas with snow just as we think that Halloween will be a cold, foggy night, the kind of weather where anything could be lurking just a few meters away and we wouldn't know it. The shape that's looming just ahead? It could be a bench, an axe murderer or a Bittern. That's the beauty and the horror of shadows in fog – they can be anything that you might want – or not want – to imagine.
Picture this; it's October 31st. You've been to one of our evening events. It was dusk when you arrived but now it's almost full dark. No matter, you have a torch to light your way. Maybe you shouldn't have strayed along the Reedbed path. Maybe you should have stayed with the group, but what harm could there be? You've visited here lots of times, right? Yet the fog's come in really thick all of a sudden and you're not quite sure how to find the exit. That torch that you were so pleased to have a moment ago? Now it's uselessly bouncing off the thick blanket of fog, more a blinding hindrance than help.
The noise of traffic thundering along the A6195 is usually a slight annoyance, breaking the tranquillity of your visit, but now it's a godsend. At least you know that if you keep it on your right you'll be heading in the correct direction. But fog does strange things to sound. And the gentle rustling of the reeds seems to be pushing at your brain the same way that the dampness is seeping through your supposedly waterproof jacket. Is the road really to your right or is it behind you now?
A scream from the reedbeds pierces your confusion. Logic, if it were allowed to see clearly in the fog of your addled brain, would tell you that it's a Water Rail. You've heard them many times. You know they live in this part of the reserve. But do they move around in the dark? And do they sound quite like the agonised cry of a baby or the squeal of a slaughtered pig?
The wetness inside your clothes is pure adrenaline sweat now. You want to run, to sprint in any direction, hoping against all hope that it will bring you to the warmth of the Cafe, but your feet seem to have an unnatural attraction to the earth beneath them. They won't move. They know as surely as your mind would if sanity still ruled there that a single step in almost every direction would lead to the black lake and the terrors that dwell beneath the surface.
And finally one, horrific sound. It seems to come from all around. Left, right, above, below, even inside your own body, thundering in time with the heartbeat that wants to burst from your chest.
“Bronk! Bronk!”
The last thing you see before oblivion folds you in her merciful arms is the dark shape swooping down from its perch on the Bittern Bus Stop.
“BRONK! BRONK!”
There are indeed Ravens at Old Moor.
So that's my spooky Halloween blog for this year. Do I hope that it's inspired you to come and visit our little patch of heaven in the Dearne Valley? Absolutely I do, but it's probably best if you come during our regular daylight opening times.
Will I be revisiting classic poetry in these blogs in the future?
Quoth the big bloke in the big hat; “Nevermore”.
Volunteer Shaun welcomes visitors to RSPB Old Moor. He also writes a weekly blog about life at the reserve titled, "View From the Shed". He usually wears a big hat.