Superstition

I'm not religious, and in theory I'm not superstitious. I believe that life is a series of chances, influenced by butterflies and sunshine and bastards. But in practise, I reckon that I display many small signs of superstition. I notice magpies, and count them. I touch wood. I throw spilt salt over my left shoulder, and spit when I see a funeral cortege. Why, I'm not sure. At a rational level, none of the above have any effect on my life yet still I repeat the actions and others. In fact, forget the rationality: none of those actions have any point whatsoever.

Yet still I get the tingling feeling of the unknown upon certain occasions. One happened last week. Moonface and I were on one of the better walking days of our best ever walking week, high in the Lakes, having just started the descent from the peak of Kidsty Pike. The view was clear and far-ranging: to the South-West we could see the Irish Sea for the last time that holiday, to the North lay Scotland beyond the Solway Firth and in the East were the last hillocks of Lakeland, the vale of Eden and beyond that the lowering line of the Pennines. The Pike had been relatively crowded, with three small parties arriving more-or-less simultaneously, but we let the others march ahead of us in order to get some private peace.

A raven flew into view, coming from behind us and from the North. Odin's bird, the reader of the future. It flapped slowly across our paths croaking hoarsely, completed about three quarters of a circle around us, then perched upon a crag and called out. My skin shivered. Irrationality told me that it was telling us something, but I didn't know what. (Or I won't admit to it.)

I can still visualise that raven upon its crag. I think that it was last Tuesday.....


8¬ o