Swans and Angels

We moved in. We boasted to our friends and colleagues that we had found a house with its own lake. We constantly marvelled at our luck in finding a home with so many walking opportunities on the doorstep. The truth of the matter, though, is that we rarely found time to venture out. Two demanding day jobs, a hobby that was almost like a third, and the care of an elderly parent kept us occupied.

Until the second angel turned up.

Our son had some holiday due. My father was in hospital. Ashley decided to come and see us. I introduced him to the bits of Greater Manchester I consider to be part of my home. We went to visit my father who had had small operation that day. We were going out for a meal in the evening. There was some time to kill. It was a warm and sunny day.

‘Let’s go and see this famous lake, then,’ said Ashley.

The swans were sitting on the path when we got there. Mother, father and five cygnets. The cob was preening himself and looked threateningly tall. He flapped his wings at us.

‘Better not go that way,’ said Ashley. ‘Let’s look at what’s over there.’

We looked at what was over there, and then what was around the next corner, and then just at the corner there, and then around the next bend and soon we were thoroughly lost in Outwood Country park. I looked for landmarks – in vain at first, but then I got my bearings.

‘I think the lake is thorough those bushes,’ I said.

It was. And there upon it was the swan family – all lined up and putting on a show: the cob, the five cygnets and then the pen. Our countryside-hating, disdainful-of-nature grown-up son snapped dozens of photos on his phone. He then sent the photos to all of his friends. Later I was to be glad he had kept them.

‘Look, they’ve left you a present,’ said Ashley, bending down to pick up a white feather from the path where the swans had been sitting earlier.

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