Hello.
This is Stephen.
These days I like to tell my listeners.
That I'm a real human being.
Every word you hear tonight.
Was recorded by me.
Sitting in my studio.
With my little dog at my feet.
And with that.
.
.
Hello my friend.
Welcome to your sleep story.
My name is Stephen Dalton.
I'm an Irish storyteller.
And it's my great privilege.
To be the voice that you listen to.
As you go to sleep.
Tonight I continue my sleepy animal series.
And tonight.
We meet a sleepy bird.
A bird who is very kind.
And who is?
A little bit lonely.
But let's see if we can change that throughout this story This is a cozy story.
Friendship and warmth.
And I really hope you like it But first,
Let's do the relaxation session.
Which will take a few minutes.
Before tonight's sleep story,
I'm going to count down from ten to one.
And as I do.
Allow yourself to let go.
More.
Feel the support.
Of the bed beneath you.
Or is it floor?
Or whatever you lie upon tonight.
And beneath what you lie upon.
Feel a deeper support.
The support of the earth.
Our home.
Our constant support.
And as you become aware of that support See if you can.
Sink into this moment a little more now.
Cheers.
Let go.
A little more now.
You are safe.
Allow my voice.
To be an anchor of safety tonight.
To be a friend.
To be a gentle guide.
A guide that only ever brings you.
To safe places.
To warm and cosy places.
Places that enable and support your sleep.
That my voice is a friend tonight.
Feel into your body now.
Notice where you might still be holding tonight.
Notice where you may have pain.
Or tingling.
Or tension notice anything.
Maybe you feel something in your feet.
Or in your lower legs through your sighs.
Or your belly.
Your chest.
Shoulders.
Arms.
Ends.
Or maybe you're like me.
And you hold tension in your face Just see if you can soften a little now.
This is a time trap.
For kindness.
To yourself and to your body.
Seven.
The day is.
Whatever it has been.
Has been.
Whatever will be.
Will be.
But right now.
All you have.
Is this moment.
Your thoughts can't change what has gone before Your thoughts can't change.
What will come tomorrow.
Your brain.
It needs rest now.
So,
As thoughts come and go now,
Don't fight them.
Don't chase them away.
See them for what they are.
Such.
Then just Watch them go.
Like leaves.
Floating away.
On a moonlit river.
Or clouds.
Passing through a starlit sky.
Six.
This is your moment.
This.
Is your time.
You have earned this moment of kindness to yourself.
You deserve.
To have peace in your life.
We all do.
So,
As you become aware of that fact,
As you.
Come to the understanding.
That we all deserve peace.
See.
If you can settle into this moment.
A little more now.
Letting your body know.
That it's really time for rest.
Peace lives within you.
It is a constant friend.
Waiting to be found.
Waiting to be felt.
Where does it live within you?
Maybe it's in your heart.
Maybe it's in your head.
It's up to you to find it.
But I promise you it's there.
Perhaps allow a little gratitude now.
Gratitude.
Of the simple things.
For your body.
For the shelter you have tonight.
Are the ones you love.
And who love you.
For the beauty and wonder of this world.
Of this planet.
That you can find.
When you look for it.
3.
Begin to engage with your imagination now.
Begin to see.
The Cozy Village.
Of Nodding Cross.
A place far away.
From all that you know.
It is raining.
And there is glowing from all the windows.
Where everyone has their fire lit.
And a little bird called Winifred.
Is asleep against a chimney-butt.
Checking in with your body one more time now.
Finding the places you are holding still.
And allowing yourself to give in.
To allow the tension to ease away.
Your body has worked hard for you today.
It's time.
To give it rest.
And one.
Completely letting go now.
As I tell you.
Tonight's sleep story.
Once.
In a small village called Notting Cross.
Their lift is small.
Round bird.
Who's name?
Was Winifred.
Oh.
Whenever it was not any particular sort of bird.
She was.
Not a robin.
Although she was roughly the shape of one.
And she was not a wren.
Although she was roughly the size of one.
She was brown on top.
And deserve.
Creamy colour underneath.
With a little dark eye.
On each side of her head.
That was nearly always shut.
And she was round.
Like I already said.
Not plump.
Round.
If you had held her.
And your two huns.
She would have felt like a warm bun.
Straight out of the oven.
And she would have fallen asleep there at once.
Because we're never it.
Loved to sleep.
More than any bird.
Who has ever lived.
She loved us in the morning.
When the light came up slow and grey.
Over the wet slate roofs.
He left us in the afternoon.
When the rain came down.
And the puddles in the lane grew wider.
And the whole village pulled its curtains.
And put the kettle on.
She loved it most of all.
At night.
When every window in Notting Cross glowed orange.
And the chimneys were warm.
Because the is where Winifred.
.
.
Slept.
And the chimney pots You may not know this.
So I will tell you.
Every house in Notting Cross.
At a fire.
And every five.
At a chimney.
And every chimney had a pot on top of it.
Made of clay.
About the height of a milk jug.
And when the fire was lit below The pot on top grew warm.
Not hot.
One.
Warm the way a cup of cocoa is warm.
When it has been sitting for five minutes.
And is exactly right.
Whenever it had discovered this by accident.
One wet October evening.
When she landed on a chimney-butt.
To have a rest.
And had woken up 11 hours later.
Feeling better.
Than she had ever felt in her life.
From that night on.
She never slept.
Anywhere else.
A bird who sleeps eleven hours a night.
Does not have a great deal of day left over.
And when afraid.
Uses hers carefully.
She goes up late.
Lazier than anyone.
The milk cart had been and gone.
The baker's shop had sold all of its first loaves.
And the children had walked to school under their umbrellas.
Before Winifred so much as opened one eye.
Then she stretched one wing.
And then the other.
And then she looked down at the village below her.
Oh.
Shining with rain.
And she felt happy.
She always felt happy.
It was simply the way she was made.
And then she went round.
Doing kind things.
Now,
She did not do big,
Kind things.
She was far too small for that.
She did small ones.
And she did a great many of them.
If Mrs.
Pomfret at the bakery Dropped a glove in the lane Winifred picked it up by one finger.
And flew it back.
And laid it on the step.
If old Mr.
Hesketh the clock men do.
Fell asleep over his workbench.
Which he did most afternoons.
Winifred tapped very gently on his window at five o'clock.
So he would not miss his tea.
If a small boy called Barnaby Cobb had been sent to bed for something he almost certainly had done.
Whenever it sat on the sill outside his room.
The rain.
Stayed there.
Until he stopped being crust.
And went to sleep.
Nobody in Nutting Cross.
Knew that all these things were done.
By one.
Small round bird.
They only knew that things went a little better in their village than they seemed to go anywhere else.
And they put it down to good luck.
At six o'clock.
When the lamps were lit.
Winifred.
Chose her chimney.
This was the best part of the day.
She flew slowly over the roofs looking down at the pots.
And she chose.
Whichever one had the best fire underneath it.
Then she settled herself on top tucked her head under her wings.
Slip.
I have told you that Winifred was happy.
And she was.
But there was one part of her life that was not quite right.
And I had better tell you about it now.
Back in September.
Before the rain had properly set in.
All the swallows of Notting Cross Had gathered on the telephone wire above the green.
There were dozens of them.
All in a row.
O'er chattering about the great journey south to the sun.
One of them.
A swallow called Percival.
Had looked down at Winifred on the roof of the post-office.
And called out to her.
Winifred.
We are off tomorrow.
Come with us.
It is warm where we are going.
It is warm all winter long.
And whenever it had thought about it.
Sitting there.
On the post office roof.
With the first drops of rain landing on her back.
She had thought about it very carefully.
And then she had said,
Know.
Thank you,
Percival I think I shall stay.
Day.
Said Percival.
Push.
Why?
Because I like it here.
Don't say it when afraid and because I like my chimneys.
Because.
.
.
If I am honest with you,
Percival.
I would fall asleep somewhere over the sea and wake up in the wrong country.
Percival would laugh.
And the next morning every swallow in nodding cross Had risen up off the wire together and gone.
When Fred had watched them go from the top of the bakery chimney.
She had wished them well.
And she admitted.
But that evening.
.
.
When she flew over the roofs to choose her chimney.
She noticed something for the first time.
There were sixty-one chimney-pots in Notting Cross.
She had counted them once.
On a slow afternoon.
And every one of them was empty.
She settled on the post office chimney.
And she said,
Good night.
The way she always did.
Nobody said goodnight,
Bye.
She slept.
Just as well as ever.
Whenever it always slept well.
But she had found out something that night.
And it was this.
It is possible to be perfectly happy.
And still.
A little lonely.
Both at the same time.
And the One.
Does not cancel out the other.
The rain came in properly in the first week of November.
And it did not go away.
It rained on the Monday.
On the Tuesday.
And on the Wednesday.
It rained on the green.
And on the church.
And on the eleven ducks who lived in the pond.
And did not mind in the least.
And on the Thursday evening.
When Winifred flew over the roofs to choose her chimney.
She saw something on the bakery chimney that had never been there before.
It was a sparrow.
It was a sin,
Sparrow.
And a wet one.
And he was crouched on the very edge of the chimney-pot.
With his feathers stuck.
Flat to his side.
Looking as though he did not know whether he was allowed to be there.
When Ifrit landed on the pot beside him.
There was room for two.
Just about.
Hello.
She said.
The sparrow jumped.
I am sorry.
Is this yours?
I will go.
It is not mine.
Said Winifred.
It is Mrs.
Pomfretz.
She keeps the oven going all night for the morning bread.
So it is the warmest one in the village You have chosen very well.
I did not choose it.
Set the sparrow.
I fell on it.
I wish.
Trying to get to the gutter.
It's a good trick.
That benefit.
You do not sleep in the gutter.
I have.
Slept in the gutter every night since September.
Except the sparrow.
And his name.
It turned out.
Was Patrick Twigg.
And he had been left behind.
Not by the swallows.
Sparrows do not go anywhere.
But his brothers and sisters.
At all bound places to go.
Warm places.
In barns and under eaves.
And Patrick was a shy sparrow.
Who had never quite managed to ask anybody.
Where the warm places were.
Well.
Said Winifred.
Now you know.
Put your feet flat on the clay No flutters in that.
Do you feel it?
Patrick felt it.
His eyes went very wide.
That is Mrs.
Pomfret's oven.
Said Wendy Fritz.
Coming all the way up the chimney just for you Now tuck your head under your wing.
That is it.
Good night Patrick.
Good night.
Said Patrick Twigg.
Winner for it.
Who had not heard that word said back to her in seven weeks.
Closed her eyes on top of the bakery chimney.
And thought that it was quite the loveliest thing.
She had ever heard.
It rained on the Friday too.
Winifred and Patrick spent the day together.
He was not much use at kind things.
Having no practice.
But he followed her about and watched and by the afternoon.
He had managed to carry a dropped hair ribbon.
Halfway across the green before he lost hold of it.
Winifred said it was a very good beginning.
That evening.
They flew over the roofs together.
And it was Patrick.
They saw her first Winifred.
He said.
On the schoolhouse.
There was a black bird.
On the schoolhouse chimney.
A young one.
Not quite fully black yet,
With a brown patch still showing on her front teeth.
She was not sitting on the putt.
She was sitting beside it.
On the cold,
Wet slates with her back to the warm clay.
As though she could not quite bring herself to climb up.
Her name was Dorothy.
And she was.
Benefred decided.
The shyest bird she had ever met.
It took a full ten minutes of gentle talking before Dorothy would say anything at all.
And what she finally said.
What is this?
Thought it might be some bodies.
It is the schools.
Said Winifred.
Miss Lavender lights the stove at seven every morning.
And lets it go down slow through the night so it is warm until about four It is nobody's chimney.
Or rather.
.
.
It is anybody's who wants it.
But you were here first.
Said Dorothy.
There are sixty-one chimneys in Notting Cross.
Sad when afraid.
And one of me.
I have been rattling about in them We'll picket.
Dorothy got up.
The three of them fitted on the schoolhouse chimney.
Just.
With Winifred in the middle.
Because she was the roundest.
And gave off the most warmth of her own.
Goodnight,
Winifred.
Said Patrick.
Goodnight Winifred.
Said Dorothy.
Very quietly.
As if she was trying the words out Good night,
Both of you.
Said Winifred.
And she was asleep.
Before the last word had properly left her.
On this Saturday.
It rained harder than it had all week.
And the wind got up with it.
And the whole of Notting Cross.
Went indoors by four o'clock.
And stayed there.
Winifred?
Patrick and Dosey Set.
Under the gate of the church.
Out of the worst of it.
And watched the lane turn into a small brown river.
And it was there.
It's about half past five.
That are very large.
Very old.
Very wet rock came down.
Out of the sky.
And landed beside them.
With a bump.
He was so big.
That Patrick hid behind Winifred.
And whenever it was not big enough to hide behind Good evening.
Said the rook.
Yet a deep,
Slow,
Courteous way of speaking.
Like a very old gentleman.
In a very old club.
Forgive me.
I have been blown here from four fields away.
And I am not entirely sure where I am.
Notting Cross.
Said Winifred.
Under the church gate.
You are very welcome.
His name.
Was Mr.
Rookwood.
And he was.
He said.
104 in rook years.
Which is a great many.
And he had lived his whole life in an elm tree.
At the top of hangman's hill which is a much nicer place than it sounds.
But the wind that evening had been too much for the elm.
And too much for Mr.
Rookwood.
And here he was.
I shall be perfectly alright.
He said.
I shall find a branch.
You shall not find a branch said Winifred.
Not in this weather.
You shall come with us.
Answer.
When the rain slackened for a moment at six o'clock.
The four of them flew across the green.
To the biggest chimney in the village.
It belonged to the Toll House.
Where the Whitacombe family live.
And it had the biggest fire in Notting Cross underneath it.
The pot was wide enough for all four of them.
With Mr.
Rookwood taking up half of it.
And it was so warm.
That even Dorothy stopped shivering within a minute.
Extraordinary.
Said Mr.
Rookwood.
With his feet spread flat on the clay.
Quite extraordinary.
A hundred and four years.
And nobody told me.
Nobody told me either.
Said Winifred.
I fell on one.
Good night,
Winifred,
" said Patrick.
Goodnight,
Winifred.
Said Dorothy.
Goodnight.
Miss Winifred?
Said Mr.
Rookwood.
And down below.
In the Toll House kitchen.
A girl of nine called Ivy Whitacombe.
Looked up from her book and said Mother,
I think there are birds on our chimney.
Nonsense.
Said Mrs Whittacombe.
And put another log on the fire.
Now I must tell you what happened next.
Because it is the best part.
The rain went on all through the next week.
It rained on Sunday.
And Monday.
Tuesday.
And every evening the four birds met at the tow-house chimney.
And every evening.
Ivy Whitacombe said there were birds on the chimney.
And every evening,
Her mother said,
Nonsense.
On the Wednesday.
Ivy went out into the yard in her boots and her Macintosh.
In the pouring rain.
And stood at the far end by the coalshed.
And looked up.
She looked for a long time And then she went inside and said,
Mother,
There is a sparrow,
And a blackbird,
And a rook,
And a little brown one in the middle,
And they are all asleep on our chimney.
Mrs Whittacombe went out and looked.
Then Mr Whittacombe went out and looked.
Then all three of them stood in the yard in the rain.
With their heads back.
And Mr Whittacombe said,
Well I'll be.
And here is what the Whitacombs did.
They did not chase the birds off.
They did not.
Impose a wire cage on the chimney.
The way some people would have done.
Mr.
Whittacombe went into the coal shed.
And came out with a board.
And the soul.
And by Friday evening.
There was a little wooden roof.
Affixed to the chimney stack.
Just above the pot.
On four short legs.
It did not touch the pot.
It kept the rain off.
Underneath it.
The clay stayed just as warm as before.
To know.
It stayed dry as well.
Ivy called it the Bird Hotel.
The four birds sat under it that Friday night with the rain drumming on the little roof above them.
And the Whitacombe's fire glowing steadily below them.
And none of them said anything for a while.
Then Mr.
Rookwood.
Cleared his throat.
And sit.
I believe.
This is the nicest thing.
That has ever happened to me.
Me too.
Said Patrick.
Me too.
Said Dorothy.
Winifred did not say anything.
She had already gone to sleep.
I should tell you what became of them all.
And then I shall let you go.
They stay.
All four of them.
The swallows came back in April.
And Percival flew round the Toll House chimney three times.
Looking at the little wooden roof and to the four birds under it and said.
Wow,
Winifred.
I see you manage.
And whenever it said she,
Rather thought she had.
Patrick Twig got very good at kind things.
Better than Winifred in the end.
Because he was quicker on the wing.
It was Patrick who carried Mrs.
Pomfret's gloves back.
Patrick who tapped on Mr.
Hesketh's window at five o'clock.
And Patrick.
Who sat on Barnaby Cobb's sill in the rain.
Dorothy grew fully black by the spring.
And sang from the top of the Bird Hotel every morning.
Which was the first thing Ivy Whitacombe heard when she woke.
Became.
Every time.
The thing she liked best about living in the Toll House.
Mr.
Rockwood.
Never went back to the elm.
He said that at a hundred and four A rook was entitled to a roof,
And besides,
He had grown fond of the company.
And Winifred.
Went on sleeping.
11 hours a night.
Sometimes 12 in the middle of the four of them.
With Patrick on one side and Dorothy on the other.
And Mr.
Rookwood behind him.
So that she was surrounded on every side by something warm.
She was still the happiest bird in Notting Cross.
She was still the kindest.
But she was not lonely anymore.
But even a little.
And if you had asked her what a family was,
She would have told you.
A family is not the birds you were hatched beside.
A family.
Is the birds who are warm beside you.
When the rain comes.
It is raining now in Notting Cross.
It is late.
And every window in the village.
Has gone dark.
Except the ToeHouse Kitchen.
Where the fire is still glowing low orange in the grey.
Ivy is asleep upstairs.
The coal shed door is shut.
The lane is shining.
On the chimney.
Under the little wooden roof.
Four birds are sleeping.
The rough.
Very large and very still.
The black bird.
With her head tucked under her wings.
The sparrow.
Pressed close against the warm clay.
And in the middle of them.
Round as a bun.
With both her eyes shut.
And both her feet.
Latch on the button.
The small brown bird.
Yulda.
To sleep.
More than anything.
Sleeping.
