A pigeon follows me into the coffee shop and it makes me smile. Someone else may have shooed it out, or alerted a staff member to the unwanted visitor, but I just watch it feast on crumbs carelessly dropped by a previous customer and enjoy the little moment of humour and opportunity. I order my Earl Grey tea, feel a pang of guilt when the bird is spotted and chased out by a harried waitress (should I have done that?) and follow it out to take a seat in the courtyard.
My attention is torn by two buskers on either side of the street: a folksy, acoustic singer to my left – filling the air outside the Abbey with dulcet tones and permission to just ‘be’ – and something I can’t quite place to my right. A jazz singer? Something modern and poppy? Either way, the two distinct sounds vying for my attention are in equal parts disjointed and comforting. It reminds me of the constant and competing rhythm of my mind: voices pulling me in separate directions. I don’t know which one to listen to, but the dissonant collaboration is familiar and strangely calming. I take a sip of my hot tea, entirely forgetting about the mini milk jug on my tray – I like it black and bitter anyway. There’s something bold and jarring about it, and it awakens my senses.
The pale, golden stone of the Abbey and Roman Baths soothes me into feeling part of something important. They are grand, but surprisingly gentle; wrapping around the courtyard like a warm embrace, and standing strong in historicity. Did every wanderer and resident feel the comfort of the sun-soaked stone? Or is it a modern feeling that stems from our self-indulgence and perception of peace?
We can ponder the lives of the Romans and the Religious from the luxury of the coffee shop, romanticising 2000 years of history, without really considering the brutality of bygone eras. What life and loss have these old buildings witnessed? We walk past and perhaps glance at the memorial stones in the Abbey entrance, which forever hold the dead in their prime. What comforted them as their short lives drew to a close? What peace did they experience?
Another pigeon elicits a smile from me as he hops on to my table. “Hello, little one,” I whisper. I might be a funny bird myself, because when he hops onto a neighbouring table the occupant shoos him away in disgust and perhaps a little fear. There’s not much to fear from them now, but the threat of disease (and therefore, death) was once much more prevalent.
No wonder thousands have flocked here for the famed healing waters. I’m even a little taken in with the mysterious powers they hold. Will taking a sip from the metal basin at the end of the Baths tour settle my stomach? Will bathing in the mineral-rich waters springing up and into the Thermae Spa ease my painful shoulder? The Romans praised Sulis Minerva for providing the healing waters, and I praise the living God for placing healing properties in the natural world.
Another one of my winged friends pecks at unseen delights as crowds jostle it from one side of the courtyard to the other. It goes unnoticed like this, and I envy it. I chose a corner table outside this unassuming coffee shop, attempting to be inconspicuous with an excellent vantage point for people-watching. Though sometimes, when you think you are incognito, it turns out you’re the one being watched. I spy a man out the corner of my eye, facing me (or, more likely, the Abbey) and I suddenly feel on show. Is this how the ancient buildings feel? I suspect they want to be on show, their beauty was never meant to be hidden in the corner. They were designed to bask in the glow of the evening sun, or to even appear formidable under the fury of a black cloud.
I wanted to buy a hot drink at the restaurant proudly positioned opposite the Baths, but it seemed to taunt me as I drew near, “Ha, please! You don’t belong here. Have you seen my clientele? Have you seen my smartly-dressed waiting staff? Not to mention my prices! I’m not a treat you deserve.” So, I slinked away to the familiarity of metal chairs and friendly pigeons, and saved my pennies for the promise of a different indulgence: one I can take alone without the fear of judgement. How do the Abbey and Baths take so much attention? The skittish pigeon in me wonders…
I peck away at words and meaning with my pen, and hope to make a difference in the world – to not be shooed away, and to bring a smile. How do you do that without being afraid to be seen?
Little pigeons, I think maybe the pale, golden stone shows us the answer: to stand strong and proud in what you are made for, observing life and loss across the years; basking in the sun and gently reflecting its goodness.
My cup is empty now, time for me to fly away.
