My children’s births couldn’t have been more different. The first was slow, drawn out (quite literally the epitome of the word laboured) and characterised by anxiety, darkness and the need for absolute silence. The second was the very opposite, fast and unstoppable but memorable for a feeling of trust, the searing daylight and the background sounds of Radio 1.

The experiences have – I think – had an impact on their characters, or at least the way I perceive them as their mother. My eldest child is emotionally sensitive – quick to show his feelings but attuned to other people’s too which is quite a gift. My youngest child is much more robust and resilient. He can be seen as a blunt instrument but has hidden depths and that is his superpower.

If we’re naturally programmed to give birth under the protective shadow of night, then my eldest son’s arrival truly fit the primal stereotype. Medical complications meant we were then enveloped in a protective cocoon for several days, to the detriment of my confidence and connection with the world beyond the hospital room. I became almost institutionalised, shielded from the winter cold and existing under artificial light.

It's why the events following our arrival at home still have such resonance for me. Our central heating had broken and in the depths of December we were forced to set up camp next to the wood burning stove – the only available heat source – for what seemed like days on end. Going outside always seemed just out of reach within the round the clock cycle of newborn care which you’re yoked to like a draught horse.

Finally, finally, on day nine, I left the house. As I walked towards the river that bisects my Cotswold village I felt like I was carrying several stones – a painful weight in my unrecovered pelvis, a burden on my heart I hadn’t yet fully processed or accepted and a perfectly formed pebble attached to my chest. I stopped on the bridge across the river – and that’s when I saw it.

A kingfisher. A flash of electric blue so transitory as to have been easily missed. After all nature doesn’t appear by request or on schedule. But while it was a swift brush stroke across the canvas, the visual imprint it left on my brain has endured to this day and it’s hard not to believe that the kingfisher appeared just when I needed it to, bringing strength to a mind buckling under a cargo of self-doubt.

A new friend described a similar experience of finding symbolism in birds to me when speaking about her father’s funeral. A robin persistently pursued her around the churchyard after the service, hopping from gravestone to gravestone as if the spirit of her father were not yet ready to leave (or her willing to let it go). It was her memory that prompted my own recollection of the kingfisher.

My view is this. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. To me, the kingfisher was a sign. I had summoned the courage to face the outside world and the fates saw my effort and acknowledged it in feathered form. Perhaps its appearance also reminded me of the kingfisher painting that hung at my maternal grandparents’ last home and created a connection with them and my late parents – a courier between lost and new generations.

Talking to my friend about her dogged robin made me realise how strongly I associate with birds. At a time in my life of reflection and discovery it’s no accident that a close friend bought me a painting depicting a woman with a swallow tattooed on her back, a migratory bird that heralds the return of warmth. And I wonder why some years ago one of my oldest friends chose to give me some pearly earrings resembling white doves, synonymous with hope, and why I find myself so drawn to wearing them now.

My second eldest sister is entering a new phase of her life and exploring her artistic talents. Birds – including robins – seem to be a recurring theme for her too. Perhaps as humans we can so easily attach meaning to them as we simply envy a bird’s ability (to paraphrase Louisa Von Trapp) to flit, float, fleetly flee and fly. To spread their wings, wheel, dart and dive and do it all again with a seeming complete lack of effort.

I have never seen a common kingfisher since. But its swooping appearance on the River Windrush at just the right moment served me well and I will forever associate the small but prominent bird with a lifting of internal fog and replacing it with steely determination to rival a kingfisher’s metallic plumage. And of course, they will always make me think of my beautiful son. Which is sign enough for me.