The river

There is something deeply soporific about the river. It moves with a nonchalant ease, the surface silky smooth and the presence of a current only betrayed by the steady underwater ripple of waterweed. Spared from the immediate effects of recent rain, the water is clear, the gravel bed visible for the first time in weeks. Such is the clarity of the water that the strengthening sun casts shadows within the water column itself, such that those cast by waterweed dance and toy with the stones on the river’s bed.

The air above the river is crowded with tiny flies, each catching in the sun’s rays which stream down through gaps in the overhanging trees. The trees themselves cast deep shadows, combining cool and heavy shade with the dry brightness of the sun and making it difficult for my eyes to adjust as I scan from one to the other. Here and there, patrolling dragonflies cruise in level flight before returning to a favoured perch to watch for rivals or a passing female.

Standing on the bridge, one of my favourite viewpoints from which to watch the river and the life that surrounds it, I can see a shoal of small fish. They seem to favour the shallows, or is it that they are easier for me to spot there? I can make out the red of their fins, suggesting they are rudd or, possibly, roach. It has been a while since I have seen any larger fish in this stretch of the river. Perhaps they have been fished out or, more likely, that they now favour one of the deeper stretches up-stream. There used to be a shoal of chub here, that I would see virtually every day but they, like the pike, are nowhere to be seen. Sadly, so close to the road, the river carries the scars of its human neighbours. An old mattress half covers the slowly rusting frame of a bike and other, smaller, items are scattered nearby. What on earth prompts people to treat the river in this way?

Leaving the bridge and moving upstream, the taint of Man is lost and the river regains its graceful elegance. The banks are thick with emergent growth and it is only because I am on higher ground that I can still see open water. Away from the traffic, the air carries a soft hum, the combined droning wingbeats of a myriad of insects. The pitch of this sound resonates within me and adds to the sense of somnambulance. It is a wonderful feeling to immerse myself in the life of the river in this way and I understand just why it is that I am drawn to her margins.