Frieda Hughes is a poet and painter. She has published seven children’s books and four poetry collections. She lives and works in mid-Wales where she rescues, keeps and paints owls.
How did you feel in the days and weeks after George flew away?
I had this huge bird-shaped hole in my life. I had my painting and my poetry, but my third marriage was crumbling and all the attention I had paid to George really had nowhere else to go. I also had this vast aviary I had built, so I set about determinedly trying to find occupants for it. You can go and buy a bird but that wasn’t what I wanted to do. The birds had to be unwanted and they had to need care – birds that could not otherwise fly free. The first bird I took in was an elderly crow named Oscar, who couldn’t fly. But he died after 46 days.
Describing Oscar’s death, you write: “The sense of emptiness and loss was so profound, so deep, it seeped through my veins like a sticky ink.” Why do you think it hit you so hard?
I felt that Oscar’s death, coming when it did, linked me to all the other deaths and losses in my life: my mother’s death, my father’s death, my brother’s death, my collapsing marriage, George’s departure and all the other deaths. Somehow for the first time I felt the weight of them all. On top of that, when a creature needs you and is totally dependent on you and then, inevitably, it dies, the bereavement process is always really hard. Some days I felt I would never stop crying. I cannot help it, I do anthropomorphise: I kept thinking about Oscar’s lack of family and how he might feel about dying in my house.
You went straight out and bought yourself a motorbike. Did that help your state of mind?
Oh, yes. I have loved motorbikes all my life, ever since I was 15. And it did help because it enabled me to get away and escape. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love my home but it is full of work, and obligations, and things crying out to be done. To be able to go out on a motorbike is to be free. I don’t need anybody else with me, all I need is a folder full of poetry, so I can go and sit in a cafe and write, completely unencumbered.
What role do birds and animals play in your life now?
I now have 13 owls, two rescue huskies, one royal python, six chinchillas and an ageing ferret called Socks. I live by myself in the middle of nowhere so they are my little feathered and four-footed family, really. One of the owls, Wyddfa, a male snowy owl with a damaged wing, lives in the kitchen and utility room and has his little places to perch. And I let the little ones out of the aviary for bit of time flying around inside during the day, too. So, they form the household. If you took them all away, it would be really cold and empty and still and silent. When you have all these little creatures to run around after, cleaning up, and feeding them, it gives a structure to your day. They’re very grounding. The world can go mad, but they’re very consistent. Animals and nature generally are a constant reminder to me of what really matters.
Would you say that George changed your life?
Well, he certainly kicked my life in a completely different direction. He and his magpie presence had a very powerful effect on me. He left me with a love of birds that I just hadn’t expected. If you had told me, a few years before, you’re going to fall in love with a magpie and be completely crackers about it, I would have laughed at you. If you’d told me I was going to end up with 13 owls in an aviary, I wouldn’t have believed you. I’d looked after birds before but with George it was different because we really related to each other. We had such a connection. I never knew that having a magpie would be so much fun. It was like having a whole little person in the house but with wings – and a really mischievous brain.
George: A Magpie Memoir by Frieda Hughes is published by Profile Books on 27 April (£16.99). To support the Guardian and Observer order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply