74 a chaos & a cormorant

Dusk in late July and we’re heading back upriver here at the Chaos de Mardoul. Our usual evening walk would be in the forest at Huelgoat (whose name means ‘high forest’), but it is still closed due to the heatwave and fire risk, and we have adopted Mardoul for the moment; a shorter walk for the dog, but quite an extraordinary place.

Huelgoat is best known for its very impressive chaos: a geological/geographical feature that involves a valley, a vast number of huge boulders, in this case granite, some almost small-house-sized, and a river. Mardoul is a great deal smaller, and equally stunning, though altogether quieter, and somehow more sacred.

Just ahead of us a young woman and three children are playing in the water (this river, unusually for the moment in intense drought, is still flowing relatively strongly), in a deepish pool by a boulder. As we approach, there is a flurry of big wings from the top of the boulder. In my dreamy semi-trance state (this place does that every time), I think ‘Oh, she must have brought her tame raven or bird of prey with her,’ an idea just as immediately dismissed, despite the proximity of bird, boulder, woman to each other.

The bird disappears so quickly I have no idea where it went.

We carry on down to the other ancient stone bridge, at the far side of which the Ellez opens out and the boulders finish. The river here is gentle, wide and clear amber, and the long flowing tresses of weed are like Ophelia’s locks had she dyed them bright green, as I did my own once (accidentally). Here, as at the other end of the little chaos, the river is starred with neon viridian and cobalt damselflies.

Suddenly a metre or two away something emerges in the river with, truly, a deep pop; and there is a cormorant. It’s a young one, and I realise it must have been him or her who’d landed on the boulder and stretched out its wings cormorant-style, perhaps not realising how close humans were.

It’s sleek and agile as an otter, weaving the width of the river in swift loops and lightning turns, all the while its head and lower body submerged. The bird is so much a part of the river that its feathers might be slicks of water. Although it’s clearly aware of my presence, it’s completely unbothered by it. From its continual gentle lunges and darts I assume there must be fish, and plentiful. I am so absorbed in its skill that I forget to take out my camera.

I watch it for ten minutes, very close by, then – plop! – it’s submerged itself, headed upriver, and has utterly disappeared.

From our renewed heatwave, my friends, I wish you water. The forecast has once again promised us a little shower tomorrow; I’ll believe it when I see it. Till next time. As always, a heart, comment or share is a fine and lovely thing…