Life on and by the river
It’s 7.30am and already the river teems with life: kayakers and rowers glide along the calm waters; fishermen – a mix of singles and families – cast their lines in anticipation; runners, dog walkers and cyclists pound the tow path in front and behind me. All around the early morning mist still clings on, but the river itself is surprisingly clear, pale blues and oranges dotting the sky as they try to break through the otherwise unrelenting grey, a hangover from yesterday’s gloom.
There’s a fresh layer of leaves fallen onto the path – mostly a mix of finger-like willow and hand-like oaks – waiting to be stepped and pushed into a muddy pulp. Unlike in a forest, there’s no quiet place of rest for these leaves. There’s an occasional stir from the houseboats that line the river bank; from a distance, it’s never quite clear which are abandoned and which are lived in, but as you get closer, silhouettes of their residents appear, or there’s a clutter of pots or the chink of a mug or glass against a table to give the game away.
All noise and sudden silence
But what really strikes me this morning is the noise on and around the river. The constant chorus of birdsong. The satisfyingly rhythmic pull and snap of rowing oars. The whirr and crinkles of bicycle wheels. The patter of runners’ feet – both the effortless, those who seem to float rather than run, and the effort-full, those whose steps become a heavy clump and clunk as they go past me, pain etched in each pace. The contrast with yesterday’s grey silence is immense. Then, all noise seemed to have disappeared – even the non-stop rain was silent – as if sucked into a hidden black hole. Today, the noises burst back out, away from whatever was keeping them prisoner, an assault on early morning senses.
With it, my mind whirrs into action, endless streams of thoughts filling my head, with little coherence. Yesterday, in that grey silence, my mind felt shut, unable to move beyond the basic. Today, I already feel alive to all possibilities.
And then, almost as quickly, everything changes. A silence descends on the river again as the grey mist rolls back in. There’s no activity on the water, only a couple of fellow walkers to accompany me on the path. The mist acts like a veil over the houses of the lucky – and wealthy, judging by their size and style – to live by the river bank, a natural keep out to match the ‘Private property’ signs that suddenly crop up every few steps.
I’m already minded to turn around, to find my way back to the strange (for me) comfort of human activity and those noises, when I reach a bridge whose arches are reflected perfectly in the still water. It’s like a barrier has been created, telling me to go no further, a mirror sending me back from where I’ve come from. I take the hint and start the walk back to the car. My head is calmer, but also less inspired, the flickers of imagination generated on the way out replaced by the mundane on the way back. Dreams and storytelling replaced by shopping lists and plans.