On the sixth day of Christmas my true love sent to me … six geese a-laying
A goose is an unlikely animal, so it’s no wonder it has been seen historically and in folklore in so many contradictory ways. Watching it waddling on the ground and its grating honk can make it seem absurd. But then, if today’s birdwatchers will travel for miles and spend hours waiting cramped for the thrilling sight of the birds arriving for winter, imagine just how impressive that must have seemed in a more innocent and superstitious age.
The bird’s vigilance is legendary, and its equally legendary bellicose nature has linked it in folklore with gods of war. Celtic tales frequently feature a goose at the side of a warrior god; and it is particularly a companion of Mars, the Roman god of war.
Wise or foolish, or the Holy Spirit?
So both in real life and in folklore it is often given the role of guardian. It has been revered for its wisdom. Yet its name is used dismissively as an insult for fear and foolishness. ‘You goose’ is a kindly rebuke for being silly. Shakespeare used the word as a form of mockery.
The goose has represented prudence, it has been credited with mystical powers of prophesy and foretelling the future, so has been seen as a lucky animal by gamblers. It has represented freedom, adventure and taking new pathways through life. In the Celtic Christian tradition it has represented the Holy Spirit.
A crucial part of medieval life
It is particularly revered at Michaelmas, an occasion which honours the archangel who cast down Satan from Heaven, and it is bad luck to slaughter a goose at midwinter. (Which may explain why so many roast goose Christmas dinners end so badly, with a bird the size of a bread roll and two or three buckets of fat.)
But its important place in animal husbandry through the middle ages was based on more than myth, of course. Apart from being roasted, providing eggs and the succulence of goose liver, it had other crucial uses. Its feathers make the softest pillows and also provide quills for writing. Its fat was an essential ingredient in many medicines and unguents.
A creature from another dimension
Whatever its peculiarities on the ground, though, it is transformed in flight almost to a creature from another dimension. This writer’s favourite personal memory of geese is from sailing on the River Deben in Suffolk. There is a particular mooring on the bend of the river opposite the Rocks, at the mouth of Kirton Creek. It is a secretive little cove of water, often mostly mud. By early evening there is little traffic on the river, and the thing then is to pour a glass and climb on to the cabin roof, lean against the mast and wait. Kirton Creek is the favourite roost of the geese.
At first sight as the light begins to dwindle they look like an elegant necklace, strung out across the sky above the trees fringing the cliff across the river, a necklace that seems to wave as though on the wind.
The cry that thrills the blood
Then comes that first haunting cry, the cry that thrills the blood. They fly in low – menacing if you have a mind to folklore, which in that situation you may. It is easy to see how the ancients attributed to them their martial reputation. You half expect to see them carrying stern figures riding to war.
They fly low: from the vantage point of the coach house roof they are almost at eye level and just a few feet away. Their haunting cries still the other sounds of the river, the last arguments over territory from the mudfeeders. As they approach, you feel the solid beat of their wings, cutting the air like blows. They are in that V formation which the ancients always interpreted as giving them the power to break free of this world and lead to new horizons.
Appearing as though from another reality
You stand still. They are so close you can see their eyes, unwavering, ignoring you utterly. A whole skein passes, as though appearing through a rent in the fabric separating us from another reality. Another skein appears, and another, emerging from beyond the Rocks and all aiming relentlessly for Kirton Creek…
And then the magic is broken. As they disappear over the embankment they cup their wings and glide down into the creek, where suddenly the music of their cries becomes the raucous squabble of birds competing for the best patch of mud for the night.
You drain your glass, take one last glance at the shimmering river as dusk falls, and climb down into the lamplit cabin. The show is over. But it will there again tomorrow.
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