The Egg

Green, green everywhere. Well not entirely. There is sky puncturing the canopy. But all around I feel trees and nature. I am telling you this from memory. I am maybe seven or eight. My parents are setting up camp after a very long drive and I have sought out the river. It is a welsh river. I don’t know its name. All rivers are beautiful to me. There are many rocks. But still, I want to put my feet in. I take off my shoes. Look around me and feel safe, surrounded by the steep banks. It is a haven. A place of peace.

I roll my trousers up high. And step in, feeling the bite of cold. I do not mind. I watch the ducks glide by. They have several chicks. I smile. I wade in the green vale, feet frozen, mind enthralled. 

Then I see it. 

Something that isn’t meant to be there. A whitish thing, in a deep part of the river.

It could be pottery. But I don’t think so.

I need to know but it is just out of reach. 

Unless…

Unless I be the little redhead I am and throw caution to the wind.

Of course I do. I dive down and eyes open try to grab it, knowing mother will be cross over my wet clothes. I fail the first time. Determined, I take a deep breath and dive again. I’ve no idea what I’m trying so hard to get.

But there it is. I rush up from the water and in my hand is an egg.

An egg.

Why is there an egg in the water?

I hear Dad calling. He’s descending the steep bank. I show him my find.

He laughs. It is not that unusual, he says. Ducks sometimes even lay eggs mid flight. What is unusual is that he examines it, declares it sound and cooks it for my dinner later on. 

It is a beautiful orange colour at the center, with its yolk the consistency of runny honey – perfect for dipping my chips in. 

And that is the story of the egg. 

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