I’ve been thinking a lot about my parents lately. My dad’s birthday is coming up on June 1st, and the lemon plant in my garden where his ashes rest needed a bit of a tidy-up. As I tended to it, I couldn't help but feel his absence, and his memory lingered heavy in the air.
Then, something happened completely out of the blue the following Tuesday.
My wife, Teresa, called out to me, saying there was a distressed bird on the conservatory roof. We get a lot of wood pigeons around our area, so my natural thought was that it would just be one of them. But as I looked out the window, there it was—looking flattened against the glass of the upper conservatory windows, exhausted and stranded.
I went outside, threw some uncooked rice onto the roof, and placed a bowl of water near the edge. Little by little, the bird—which I could now identify as a racing pigeon—moved towards the food and drink. Standing there watching it, a sudden memory of my father's absolute love for anything racing washed over me. Coupled with the fact that I've been seeing random feathers around the place lately, I felt an omen press in around me. A sudden shiver ran down my spine. Was it a sign from him? Or was it just cold outside?
The Thread of the DLI
That shivering moment brought my mind back to the incredible, overlapping history of my family, and the strange ways those who have passed try to reach back to us. My dad, Alfred John Taylor, was a Skipton man. Though he was a proud Yorkshireman, he found himself wearing the green badge of the Durham Light Infantry (DLI) during the Second World War.
It was a twist of fate that brought him to Spennymoor, where he met my mum, Sarah Jane Small. They fell in love and married in 1943. Soon after, the DLI sent Alf to the gruelling jungles of Southeast Asia to serve in the Burma campaign. He was part of the "Forgotten Army," enduring unimaginable conditions, but he returned home in 1946 with his Burma Star—medals I still hold proudly today.
But long before my dad ever put on that DLI uniform, the very same regiment had left a permanent, supernatural mark on my mother's soul when she was just a tiny girl.
July 1st, 1916: A Legacy Passed Down
Though my mum, Sarah Jane, wasn't born until 1926, she grew up in the vivid shadow of a story that defined her family’s history. It was a story passed down to her by her mother, Eliza, about the Great War and a "sweet and mild" soul from Spennymoor named George, affectionately known to everyone as Geordie.
Long before my mum was born, Geordie had been adopted into the massive, bustling family home in Chester-le-Street. He had been the fierce protector of the older children, walking them to school and keeping them safe before he joined the local DLI recruitment drive and was sent to the Western Front.
The story goes that on the morning of July 1st, 1916—the bloodiest day in British military history—one of the teenagers in the house woke up to see Geordie standing right there in the bedroom. It didn't feel like a haunting; it felt like a joyful reunion. They talked, they shared jokes, and they laughed together. Geordie was home.
The Heavy Silence
Heading downstairs for breakfast, the morning warmth was instantly shattered by a wall of absolute grief.
My grandfather, Fred, a hard-bitten coal miner used to life's cruelties, was quietly holding his wife, Eliza, who was in floods of tears.
The rest of the brothers and sisters sat in a heavy, unnatural silence.
Unaware of what had just unfolded, the happy news of Geordie's "return" was met by the hollow, heartbroken eyes of her parents. Eliza was holding a yellow slip of paper that had just been delivered—a telegram from the War Office. The telegram stated that Geordie had been killed in action at the Somme. He had died on that very day.
The Name on My Mind
The racing pigeon didn't just grab a quick drink and leave. It stayed with me. While it was under my care, I casually, almost innocently, decided to name the bird Jordan.
At the time, I thought it was just a funny nod to my day job. At work, I manage a bloke named Jordan who suffers from sleep apn0ea. He has a terrible time getting up on time, and because he struggled, nobody else really wanted him on their team. So, they gave him to me to look after and guide.
It wasn't until later, looking out at the lemon plant in the garden, that the shivering truth hit me.
Jordan. Another way of saying Geordie.
Was he on my mind the entire time? Geordie, the sweet, mild soul adopted by my grandmother because he needed a place to belong. Jordan, the misunderstood lad at work given to me to look after. And Jordan, the lost, exhausted bird flattened against my windowpane, needing sanctuary.
The Boomerang Bird
Finding Jordan’s home became a saga of its own. I contacted the Royal Pigeon Racing Association (RPRA), and their initial advice was simply to "liberate him," though they warned me that if I didn't release him far enough away, he would be lost in action. They suggested a 40-mile drive.
I wasn't about to drive 40 miles, so on Friday, Teresa and I put Jordan into a cardboard box and drove six miles to the local recreation field. We opened the box, and as Jordan turned and looked back at us, we literally ran away, jumped in the car, and drove home.
Feeling a sense of accomplishment, we sat down outside the conservatory with a gin and tonic to celebrate a job well done. We looked up at the glass roof.
There he was. He had beaten us home.
The Message on the Ring
By Saturday, I was desperate to find his true owner. Jordan was becoming incredibly clingy, following me around like a shadow. I went into the conservatory and sat down, and the bird came right over to the window.
Suddenly, he started fiddling with the orange band around his leg. Teresa looked closely and said, "There’s a number on that."
She managed to copy down five digits. I muttered that it looked like it could be a mobile number, and then, blow me down, as if he understood us, the bird started twisting the band around with his beak, revealing the missing six numbers.
I dialled the number immediately. On the other end of the line was Jordan's real owner.
Adopted by a Legend
Because of logistics, I had to keep Jordan for another four days before a courier could come to pick him up. During that week, my friends and family had a brilliant time at my expense, thinking it was absolutely hilarious that I had been "adopted as a dad" by this beautiful young bird.
But as I watched the courier drive away, I must admit to feeling a deep wave of sadness at his departure.
The jokes about me being "adopted" didn't bother me. In fact, they made me smile. It seems the men in my family are simply drawn to the quiet ones—the ones who need a hand walked to school, a bit of guidance through a tough patch at work, or a bowl of water on a hot roof.
I don't know if it was just cold outside that Tuesday morning when Jordan arrived, or if the mind plays tricks when an anniversary approaches. But I like to think that our loved ones never truly leave us. They whisper to us in the random feathers we find on the ground. They echo in the names we give to strangers. And sometimes, they fly across the miles, refusing to leave our side, just to let us know that the bond of a family’s love is never, ever broken.
Selected Verse
This is not one of my poems but, I thought, Skyline Pigeon is an absolutely perfect choice. Written by Elton John and Bernie Taupin in 1968, the lyrics use a homing pigeon as a metaphor for a soul longing to break free from its constraints, fly across the miles, and finally return home. With my dad's love for racing, the bird's determination to get back to its owner, and Geordie's journey home from the Somme, I think it fits beautifully.
Turn me loose from your hands
Let me fly to distant lands
For my wings are long and strong
And my desire to fly is coming on
Turn me loose to the nature of the hills
Open up my eyes, let me see some trees
Dismiss me from your cupboards and your windows
Open up your cage and let me free
Fly away, skyline pigeon fly
Towards the things you left so far behind
Fly away, skyline pigeon fly
Towards the open spaces of my mind
Now I've found the strength to fly
This mountain man can only sigh
And child-like tears will dry my eyes
As I look across the grey up to the sky
And the shadows that I left behind
Are old companions of the night
For the prison cell is empty now
And the skyline pigeon's gone, flying high
Fly away, skyline pigeon fly
Towards the things you left so far behind
Fly away, skyline pigeon fly
Towards the open spaces of my mind
Turn me loose from your hands
Let me fly to distant lands
For my wings are long and strong
And my desire to fly is coming on
Turn me loose to the nature of the hills
Open up my eyes, let me see some trees
Dismiss me from your cupboards and your windows
Open up your cage and let me free
