Finding Feathers

On a Saturday evening in May 2012, like a snowflake, a tiny white feather drifts down and settles on my knee. A shiver runs up my spine as I sit gazing at the feather while I listen to a beautiful rendition of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons which fills the Church of Santa Maria Dela Pieta in Venice.

Jon I think with a sad smile. 

On July 31^st 2018 after two days away to say see you in my memories and dreams to a dear friend I arrive home. Sitting on the floor beside the door is another white fluffy feather. Jenny I whisper as I stoop to pick it up and lay it gently on the worktop.

In August during a weekend trip to the British Birdwatching fair I stop my mobility scooter with a jerk in the Art Marquee when I spot beautiful feathers sculpted from wood. The artist Tom (T.A.G) Smith has captured the curves of the feathery fronds and the changes in shade and colour by the use of different woods. Mr H and I gawp open mouthed at such curious creativity. Beside the wondrous wooden feathers is a sculpted owl face, its wide eyes stare, unblinking at us with a twit twoo grin. We move closer. My eyes twist and turn to feast on each feather on display; from a gigantic Golden Eagle to a fine, tiny, Goldfinch feather. We chat to bearded Tom while surrounded by these precious pieces of art. 


Later we return and pluck a brown and cream Buzzards feather, displayed on Purpleheart wood, from his stand for our wedding anniversary gift to each other.

In the afternoon at the far end of Marquee Two, a purple book cover catches my eye: Mrs Pankhurst’s Purple Feather Fashion Fury and Feminism – Women’s fight for change. I park my scooter to get a closer look. 

I open the hard-backed book and read the first few lines. I am hooked and watch like a hawk as the cashier handles my purchase. 

The following morning Mr H and I sit and listen to the author of Mrs Pankhurst's Purple Feather Tessa Boase in the Harrier Lecture Marquee. My blood bubbles with indignation as Tessa tells the vivid story involving fashion, the slaughter of birds and the four unacknowledged female founders of the RSPB. 



Their fight was fought at the same time as the suffragettes but was in direct opposition to the real purple Ostrich feather which Mrs Pankhurst chose to adorn her hat. During the 1800s and early 1900s, millions of wild birds were slaughtered all over the world to provide milliners with the birds heads, bodies, wings and feathers with which ladies chose to decorate their hats. As I turn the pages of The Purple Feather I learn that Emily Williamson set up the Society for the Protection of Birds in 1889 and was joined in 1891 by Etta Lemon, Eliza Phillips, Hannah Poland and Winifred,  Duchess of Portland. Together they campaigned to stop this slaughter of birds, many of which, by this stage, were near to extinction.

On Saturday evening we stand at the edge of the calm waters of Rutland Lake. We are waiting to board the Rutland Belle for an ‘Osprey cruise’ with Naturalist Simon King. As we sail out onto the water the wind picks up so these once near extinct birds stay tucked into trees. But we ooh and ahh as common Terns spiral into dives for their fish supper and watch while little white Egrets paddle at the water’s edge adorned with black beaks and yellow shoes.

As dusk descends, almost an hour passes before Simon calls out Osprey over the damn ahead. Our heads snap up and a boat full of binoculars eagerly peer ahead at the white and brown swooping bird until it flies into the distance...

On Sunday, once again we stop at Tom’s stand in the Art Marquee to stare at his exquisitely detailed wooden feathers. I pull out my credit card as I can no longer resist Mr H’s imploring gaze. It’s your birthday present I tell him as we walk away with his beautifully crafted Golden Eagle feather carefully wrapped. 

On our way home we dip into Lyndon Nature Reserve for a last sight of the Ospreys; this once virtually extinct species are here because of the Rutland Osprey Project. In a hide we peer through scopes at a male and female with their last chick who sits silently still on a fallen tree preparing for its first solo flight to Africa. 

Walking back to the centre I stoop many times to pick up grey, black and white silken feathers dropped by their owners as they moult. 

The last feather I swoop up has a gloriously multi coloured tip. We gaze at its splash of blue, dots of rust brown and white and guess which bird it is from. 

I imagine a feather such as this was often plucked from a slaughtered bird to be worn on a hat.  

Let me be as a feather

Strong with purpose Yet light at heart,

Able to bend.

And, Tho I might become frayed,

Able to pull myself together again.

Anita Sams