By the Riverside
Here where reeds and waterlilies flourish is a place where herons and kingfishers dwell. In the morning the rain had fallen and hung the leaves with tears, but now the sun is shining bright and as it hits the heavy raindrops they shine like crystals. The sunlit fields are now a breadth with wild flowers, and where grasses alike in broad and narrow zones grow amidst them. The green tracery of the trees and the white- flecked blue sky make this a wonderful place to while away an afternoon.
As the river lengthens out into scores of miles flanked by the gentle swaying rushes, where hemlock as tall as a man raises its pretty flower heads in parsley-like profusion and with purple spots on its long stems, it has a unique odoriferous smell of mice so beware, this is indeed an extremely poisonous plant and one to be avoided at all costs. This was the same plant that led to the sad demise of Socrates. Unlike hemlock the harmless hedge parsley with its skeletal remains all whitely draped in lacy spidery tatters in February, now possesses flower heads as delicate as a wreath of smoke.
By the water’s edge the wind stirs the diaphanous drapery of the weeping willow, when suddenly a water vole catches my heart off guard and clambers upon a trailing branch shaking the pearls of water from his furry jacket. You can well imagine my muffled cry of joy as I crouched low amongst the undergrowth to enjoy his presence and savour the moment. Just then, a stern looking bespectacled lady with a cast in one eye passes by with her dog. Her voice calls out but her plea meets empty air followed by her retracting footsteps. Her mouth then twitches into a smile; she snorted loudly then cleared her throat in irritation disturbing a cock pheasant that shot into the air with an indignant croak. Sadly with the moment lost the image of the water vole now fades into a watery faintness beneath the abundant wild peppermint plants, and the water stills once more.
The river is ever a haunt of wild and wonderful things and a place of sheer joy but all is not lost. A Mallard drake comes sailing by, it’s folded wing tips a bright metallic blue, its head and neck like feathered petrol. Close by the stately comfrey plant is a perfect resting place for the pale yellow brimstone butterfly flaunting its sulphur wings in the bright sunshine. A place where the short-tongued bumble bee chews diligently at the base of the tubular comfrey flowers to reach the hidden treasures, and burgles the rich supply of nectar from within.
The statuesque heron fishing on the far bank becomes aware of my presence and with the slow and stately beat of its huge wings takes to the air following the flow of the river to take up another prime fishing spot. As I walk a little further along the river a stoat breaks cover and darts across the sandy path stopping me in my tracks. I believe he may also be on his way to do a spot of fishing for stoats love fish more than anything else. As he disappears into the undergrowth he stops momentarily turning to look back at me before going on his way gibbered in fury and I wish this little fellow well. Continuing along the path I glance upstream to see the wondrous sight of the electric blue of a kingfisher’s flash, jewel-like and dazzling as he heads swiftly down river disappearing into the distance.
As time moves gently on the wind begins to percolate through the reeds and rushes through the trees. As I listen hard above the sound I can hear the hooting of a little owl. I follow the sound and catch sight of him as he bobs up and down in the quaint antics of his kind. He lands on the wall of the ruined abbey with a small field mouse in his talons and stares back at me. This beautiful tiny owl hunts by day and night; he is not native to Britain but is as much a part of our countryside and a true joy to behold.
At the hour of the sunset I feel a soothing melancholy of joy, but now the fading landscape sinks into the night as the sky becomes blue velvet, where stars like a rash lay across it. The strengthening wind begins to make music like the dash of the sea on a windy shore, for these are the pleasures that cannot be out-done by the artifices of wealth and luxury.
I hope that my little story will be helpful to those anxious to know what to look for and wishful to learn something of our wondrous countryside by introducing you to just a fraction of the teaming life which inhabits this tiny stretch of river.
