The river

I am drawn to the river; this dark, sediment-laden entity that meanders through the valley towards the distant fens. There is something about water, the way in which its character alters with the seasons, its moods a reflection of the wider changes taking place across the landscape. During the dry months of summer it slumbers, moving slowly under the oppressive heat and to the background sound of a thousand waterside flies. Now, in winter, after rain it has acquired a new strength, a swirling deep brown mass of energy that shifts debris, sweeping away the year that went before to start anew with the coming spring.

I am not the only creature drawn to the river today. A grey squirrel crouches on the shallow incline of a muddy bank, its head down drinking from the water. It appears stiff, bow-legged and, at first, it does not see me but then, startled by the sudden realisation of my intrusion, it retreats into the cover of the trees, all the while berating me for my indiscretion. The bankside alders hold small parties of siskins, their soft chattering calls a communal reassurance that all is well with the world. These delightful little finches visit my garden every day at this time of the year but I much prefer to see them here, feeding on the alders and showing off their exquisite dexterity. Like diminutive acrobats they hang from the ends of tiny branches to reach the cones. Further ahead, as I leave the damp woodland behind to emerge onto the old floodplain, the river slides slowly past a fishery. Wrens foraging in the deep sedge rattle at my presence, while a flock of long-tailed tits - a baker’s dozen strong - flitter to and fro across my path. In the past I have seen overwintering chiffchaffs here but not today.

Such is the colour of the water that I cannot see anything below the surface; there is no hint of the chub and roach of summer, yet they must be here. The loss of the submerged dimension only adds to my fascination with the river. There is a world here, just beyond reach, that I cannot see. What creatures move through the murky water? Has one of the local otters slipped past unnoticed or is there a pike hanging motionless just feet away from where I stand? T S Elliot once described a river as being a strong brown god, and I can relate to this allusion. The subtle strength of the river allows it to mould the landscape to its own ends, it supports life and it provides endless fascination to those of us who live within its reach.