I got this off Google street view yesterday. It was like seeing an old friend:
Discovering this river was the only good thing that came out of the smoking ban. For years beforehand I used to sit inside the pub with a beer and a cigarette, but after the ban I always sat outside, usually down by the river, at one of the wooden tables beside it.
I got fascinated by the river. It was always changing. Some days it was in deep, fast-flowing flood. But mostly it was just like the placid view above. And sometimes it dwindled away to a narrow stream curling through the rocks on its bottom.
Some of the rocks were quite large. They’d arrive one day, and sit for months immobile, and then they’d be gone again, swept downstream on a flood.
And when the river flooded, as it did from time to time, it could fill the pub. There were signs inside the pub showing how high the water had risen in one year or other. It happened every 20 years or so. They had to change all the carpets when that happened.
Eventually I explored the whole river from end to end, from where it began as a narrow stream in the hills above, to where it discharged swollen into the sea.
Water is astonishing stuff.
I think of rivers as living things. They’re always moving, very purposefully, in one particular direction. And they have their moods, which vary from the playful to the angry. And they can be quite vocal. either quietly babbling, or loudly roaring. What else is needed to be alive? Who says that living things need cells or DNA to be alive? Rivers have neither.
And there were always things happening on the river. There were always leaves floating on it, journeying side by side. The occasional boat. And there were ducks. And fish. And dragonflies. And eddies and ripples and shadows. It was like watching a show. And I could watch for hours.
I miss the river.