Apologies if today’s title gives you an earworm but this is something I’ve wanted to write about for a long time and until now, I haven’t known what to say. It has evolved very, very slowly because it concerns something rare and elusive. That’s why it’s so special and it happened for only the sixth time, a couple of weeks ago when I was on a train. I was looking forward to seeing an old friend, and spent the first part of the journey absorbed in a crossword. It was particularly tricky, so by the time I’d cracked it and took notice of what was going on outside the rather dirty window, we were well into Dorset, with Poole Harbour, misty and wide, filling the view. The train rumbled along, and as we left the water behind and I stared out idly, wondering what my friend’s ‘favourite cafe’ would be like, we passed a hill in the near distance, with sparse, bare trees on it — a wintry scene under a pewter sky. Then suddenly, there amongst the russet bracken, proud at the pinnacle, I spotted a stag standing completely still. It was surveying its landscape, and the sheer beauty of it took my breath away. ‘Oh my, it’s happened again,’ I thought.  It was a moment — a split-second when time seemed to freeze. It was a snapshot of pure wonder. 

The first time I became aware of this phenomenon was about twenty-five years ago. At that time I lived in deepest Sussex and one night shortly after Christmas there was a heavy snowfall. We hadn’t expected to wake up to such a crisp, white world but Harvey, our chocolate Labrador needed his exercise, so I put on my boots and set off with him for our regular walk through the woods. The cover was absolute and pristine. Not a blade of grass could be seen and bare branches bowed beneath the weight of the captured snow. It was a fairytale scene, as quiet as can be and I was lost in daydreams about the coming week. Then something startling happened. An auburn fox raced past about ten yards away running as fast as it could with my dog in hot pursuit. It was a few seconds of silent film. Maybe two. Three at the most. The fox got away but the intentness of the two animals and the stark palette of white, brown and auburn were breathtaking. It knocked me sideways and I knew that moment had been something precious. I didn’t have the words to describe how it made me feel and it took another fifteen years before I had another similarly overwhelming experience.  

That time I was in Worcester for a weekend on my own. The Cathedral is surely one of the loveliest in England and as I walked through the Edgar Tower into the precinct, College Green opened up ahead, an oval of grass surrounded by houses of cream, sage green, and shell pink. There were yellow and violet crocuses under a tree, and frothy blossom above. In the background I could just see the river. Then all of a sudden as I stood there, taking in the gorgeous scene, the cathedral bells started pealing and my mouth literally fell open. It was pure perfection. This time, I recognised the feeling but as before, I couldn’t find the right words to describe it. 

A few years later it happened again. I was sitting on a floral-adorned, straight-back chair in a garden – English greenery all around and a gathering of smartly-dressed people chatting quietly and waiting for something to happen. There was palpable poignancy, too, as so many of us remembered our friend Nicky, mother of the bride, who was no longer with us. She would have loved this. And then a hush, followed by row after row of gasps, as Emma the bride, came into view, in a simple white dress, riding side-saddle on her horse and flanked by woodland fairy bridesmaids. Once again, there was a shiver of magic and time stood still. 

Two years passed until it happened again. I was on a bus in the Japanese Alps and as it spun nauseatingly round bend after bend, I was becoming increasingly miserable. Then… it swung round yet another bend and there in the distance was Mount Fuji. Ravishing and unmistakable with snow drizzling down the slopes like a fancy pudding, and a fluffy garnish of cloud on top. I was astonished to feel so moved by it. It was a gift that took me completely out of myself and I forgot about feeling sick. 

It took six years for the next ‘event’ to present itself. This one happened in France — Rocamadour in the midst of a heatwave, and it was so stifling that we could only walk early in the morning or in the late evening. Our accommodation was just yards from the church of Notre Dame built high in the cliffs above a gorge of the Alzou river, and just after dawn as we yawned and wandered through the ancient building, we heard a whooshing noise. I assumed that street cleaners were out early with their machines, preparing the village for the daily influx of tourists. But as we reached the terrace and looked down over the gorge, we saw immediately where the noise was coming from. Two huge hot-air balloons were drifting past in the cool of the early morning with their gas burners spouting controlled flames and passengers standing rapt in the baskets. That first sight of them took my breath away and we too, stood rapt and watched until they were out of sight.

Ever since it happened the second time, on College Green in Worcester, I’ve been searching for a way to describe the feeling to myself, let alone trying to explain it to anyone else. I’ve tried out various words and phrases – flashbulb moments…an intense moment when the world seems perfect…a sense of being deeply connected to the world…authentic moments…pure joy…intoxication…deep harmony…wholeness…a momentary, complete appreciation of being alive…spirituality… Ecstasy, even but I shy away from that as it sounds religious or a bit carnal. I think that some people might call this awe but I don’t think that’s what I’m struggling to describe. I’ve stood in front of incredible works of art, and been in spectacular places — the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona comes immediately to mind —but I expected those things to be astonishing. What is different about the six ‘flashbulb moments’ is that they all involved something unexpected. I know that I can’t be alone in noticing this sublime phenomenon and over the years I’ve come across other people who have also attempted to describe something that seems similar. 

In his memoir, Chasing Daylight, Eugene O’Kelly refers to the perfect moment he experienced once on a golf course. A hawk swooped down to the lake right next to him, plucked a fish from the water and flew off past his head. And in her memoir, Old Rage, the actress Sheila Hancock writes with passion about an experience she had during the war, as an evacuee child in Dorset. She was holding a friend’s hand and swimming naked in the dark, in a pool by the sea at Dancing Ledge when she was overwhelmed by the magnificence of the sea and love for her friend. ‘It was a moment of complete happiness,’ she writes. But these experiences can’t be manufactured to order and when at a later point in her life, she returned to Dancing Ledge, she found that she could not recapture the feeling. Wordsworth, too, writes about spots of time. Vivid, cherished moments of intense, often natural, experiences that can be revived in the memory and which create a lasting connection between the past and the present. 

Over the years since that first experience, I’ve wondered and wondered. When will the next one happen? Will there be a next one? How can I explain it to anyone else as it’s only by finding the right words that you can share your experiences precisely and find out how life feels for other people. And then just a few weeks ago, it was Sir Michael Morpurgo who gave me the key to understanding my own experiences better. I was listening to his collection of essays — Funny Thing Getting Old – and yes, he writes about getting older, the topic that first attracted me to it, but he also writes about books, peace, war, optimism and gratitude. And most importantly, he writes about nature. It is beautiful writing throughout but one chapter resonated above all the others. In it, he describes how for more than fifty years he has taken a morning walk along the isolated valley of the Torridge where he lives in Devon. As he walks it helps him to come up with the wonderful stories that he writes for children —War Horse, Private Peaceful and so many others — and in all of those years he has seen many herons and ducks, and an occasional kingfisher but never an otter. Then one day, quite out of the blue, an otter popped out from under the water. It stared at him and he, staying perfectly still, stared back. The animal dived back down and to his delight it came up with a fish between its paws. Time and time again – he estimates at least eighty — the otter popped up, sometimes crunching on a mussel, once with an eel. It knew he was there but it didn’t mind. For forty minutes he stood, entranced. Then it was gone. ‘But the thing is,’ he says with characteristic wisdom, ‘…it wasn’t gone because that memory will be with me for the rest of my life.’

And that’s it. That’s exactly it. His ‘otter moment’ lasted longer than any of my experiences but I understand just what he’s talking about. My ‘flashbulb moments’ took my breath away and the memory of each of them will be with me for the rest of my life. Maybe you’ve had similar experiences. Maybe you’ve come up with your own way of describing them. I’d love to hear. Do put something in the comments section or email me on 60treatsandmore@gmail.com and I’ll post it for you.