A cancernaut in nature

A midnight walk; the power of the tribe; the nightingales' song.

Sarah and I are in a woodland glade in Sussex. Trees take centre stage; my towny self feels like I’m on the set of a Shakespeare play. English oak, beech, sweet chestnut, hazel, hornbeam, silver birch, they tolerate us tree tourists. I imagine them whispering, ‘here’s another bunch come to admire us’ as they ruffle their leaves with pride. It’s evening in early May, a chill is descending. I’m thrilled to be on this adventure. I am reminded of weekends in my twenties when I escaped with friends to rural Wales. When we walked back from the pub at midnight, giggling with excitement and fear of the dark.

We’re a buzzing bunch of sixty souls, here to listen to nightingales sing in the darkness. United by a desire to witness a rare, threatened symphony.

I spot who I know must be the nightingales’ champion, protector, devotee. Sam Lee. The person who will lead this nocturnal pilgrimage. His hair is surely made of moss. There are twigs, leaves, maybe a baby bird in the nest of his hair. His skin the colour of bark, he’s beautifully weathered. He’s part of the tree tribe, not one of us. He’s of no time and all time. He’s Old Father Nature wrapped in a hessian scarf, wearing a wool jumper of a glorious green perhaps dyed with nettles. He’s mysterious, a magical tree sprite, a spirit of the woods.

He is Stickman. He smiles broadly, welcomes everyone individually. He is poet, musician, activist. If nature is the religion, he’s the disciple here to honour and protect her and guide us to feel and see her anew.

As we chat excitedly and hear one another’s stories, he ushers us to sit on simple wooden stools around the fire. He tells us tales of the nightingale as some lean in to smell the woodsmoke more deeply, to inhale his words. Because of my cancery lungs, Sarah and I stand back. There are lanterns and an old kettle hanging from a simple crane above the flames to boil water for tea. It’s theatre and yet on the contrary, it’s pure, simple nature. It’s how our ancestors gathered for millennia to celebrate and welcome Spring, sunshine, growth, food and community after the dark, cold months of Winter. When woodland was shelter, fuel, pantry and home.

Sam the Herbiman produces from his pocket a stick. On it is written the order of service for our adventure. My heart sings with the sheer joy of writing on a stick. He’s an enchanting woodland nymph leading us into an experience more real than the reality we’ve left behind. I’m extraordinarily happy.

This night of the nightingales was a gift from Sarah to me for Christmas. Time to gather in to our hearts, to feel alive. Since we landed in the cancerverse, we’ve both been drawn to play in the natural world. When the city, the bricks, the routines of hospital life and cancer admin overwhelm us, we return to the forests, woods, parks, seascapes and hills. We’ve hugged the bodies of many warm trees. The feeling is extraordinary. The rootedness, the centuries of human life many of them have witnessed.

Trees offer me solace, perspective and constancy in the world of uncertainty that cancer is. That life is. I am soothed, my nerves untangle.

With expertise and enthusiasm, wit and eloquence, Sam captivates us with story and song. He sings and introduces us to three glorious songstresses. The trio perform folk songs from the Balkans, Mediterranean and Black Sea, singing in harmony, without instrument. I feel the haunting tragedy of their lament in my heart.

He tells us how nightingales were the muse of poets and writers. How our woods were peppered with these feathered musicians. How the journey from West Africa to England is treacherous and how they return to the woods every year. The same woods, remarkably. How there are fewer than 5000 pairs in England and that their habitat and food supply is under threat. They’re surviving for now yet surely, we want them to thrive?

He explains how the trees may not look ancient. They’re coppiced and have been for hundreds if not thousands of years. On rotation, trees were cut down to the stump for fuel or resource. But under the soil, the root networks are ancient, alive, connected. I feel the magic spell of the people who carried out the business of living on these woodlands; their footprints and memories. It is remarkable and humbling to feel the historical ecosystem collide with today.

With the soundtrack of birdsong, this is a potent metaphor too of cancernauts who feel cut down, coppiced. I was reduced to the smallest version of myself. My activity, my breath, my freedom, chopped down. I couldn’t imagine growing back, restoring. Slowly, slowly as I walked towards the new version of myself, cells stirred, nerves awakened. New growth, fresh foliage. Forever changed but living, truly living.

At 11pm, we begin our walk to the hallowed space where we hope to hear the courtship song of the male nightingales. We’re dressed in quiet clothes. Noisy outdoor clothing may disturb our feathered friends, so we wear wool, sheepskin or other gentle fibres. No torches. No phones. We walk single file, silently through the woods, across paths, up stumbly slopes. Sam has suggested that any who identify as wobbly or slow can take a stick, which I have. I’m a shepherd in a sheepskin coat.

I’m deeply moved by the procession. I conjure the millions of humans over the centuries who have walked silently to escape war, prejudice or fear. Who have moved as one. Who continue to move to reach what they hope is safety and light. And I feel the oneness, the care we have for one another. It seems vital, urgent to be together, connected, safe. We are discoverers, re-treading the footsteps of our forefathers and mothers whose mode of transport was their own two feet.

At one point, an older couple stop and stand still. It’s almost pitch dark. They’re disorientated. The procession halts. Sarah makes the call-sign, a whistle and Stickman appears. He gently guides them on but again they freeze. I hear him whisper, ‘Juliet, would you both like to come up front with me?’ My heart breaks with his gentleness, his kindness. I am flooded with how connection and gathering one another into the nest, saves souls.

The power of the tribe. I would be terrified if I were alone here. Even if Sarah were with me. The darkness is where the demons hide. But with the collective comes trust. I am safe.

An earlier version of myself would have felt the cold blood of fear but the group, the silent body moving through the land with respect and peace into the hallowed cathedral of the woods brings solace, strength.

An hour later the first trill of a nightingale rings. We reach a field and lay down blankets. We lie or sit and are still and silent. I feel my heart ready to weep. The sky is clear. The night is cold. There is a gentle rustle of feathers on leaves. And for one spectacular hour, we rest on the damp earth and listen. We’re immersed. The nightingales offer up their song and they too appear to listen to the song of the three songbird sisters who call and respond.

At the top of the field, the moon peeps up on the brow of the hill. A sliver of warm orange, then the full bauble of her. This is the first time Sarah and I have seen the moonrise in this way. And it is spectacular.

It is 2am and we walk back to the glade where we’ll sleep. This time we whisper words of our enchanting experience. Sarah and I stay in a bell tent. My nerves and cells are hypersensitive to cold since cancer treatment so Princess Mel requires a mattress. A flock of giggles land in the tent, the sheer hilarity of wearing so many clothes and blankets and yet still being frozen. Sarah’s nose is insomniacally cold. Sleep is fitful. But the orchestra of the dawn chorus is a sensation, a polyphony we’ve never heard before. The tent warms in the morning sun. We’re dozy and cosy and the songbirds are serenading us. All is well. All is beautifully, magically well.

I’ve left behind in London all that my Stage 4 cancer means. I realise how rarely I feel free of it. Maybe if I stay here, I can step away from it all? Magic it away as Sam magic-ed the nightingales to serenade us. Our very own Natural Health Service.

Sam and his team are on a mission to open nature to us all. Maybe we’ll save our souls, our spirit and our planet if each of us feels the potency, the necessity, the pre-humanity of nature.

I’m fortunate to have heard the little brown birds’ serenade. There are now so few nightingales cavorting together in the Spring months. If we avoid rewilding both ourselves and the land, we risk the nightingales exiting stage left.

From Sussex to South Africa, Texas to Tenerife, whether the organisms around you have feathers, leaves, shells or scales; fur, twigs, fruit or human skin. Whether they’re in flight or nesting for a while, be kind, be curious, stay connected.

It’s time to see the woods for the trees.

Find out more about Sam, nightingale conservation and the theatrical joy of Singing with Nightingales here.