Last week my brain was full of words, so I stepped outside for a walk. I was staying halfway up a wooded valley, on a steep hill, and the path I took went down. The sky was blurred out by beach trees and turning leaves and I could hear the river rushing down in the dip. The path went steeply down, then leveled out a way above the river. I could see it, could hear it, but I wanted to be near it. The path carried on level, past an old holiday cottage, till a stone platform emerged from the mud. Beside it was a scrambly way down to the water. I went down, sliding on slippy leaves, jumping over the trickle of a tiny waterfall that fell from the path above.
The river was a series of waterfalls, crashing, rushing, whirring water spinning white foam across the peaty brown. I was still above it and I saw a series of roots and stones like a little stepladder and made my muddy way down. I stood uneven on the edge: there were no flat comfortable surfaces. I listened to the water’s roar and watched the black treacle pour in circles, the foam thick like the head on Guinness. I found a branch and I leant out, wobbling slightly, to dig it into the water and find the bottom. I wanted to know if it was swimmable, but only a little of the branch went in. Too shallow to swim. Instead I leant back against the bank and watched the water rushing, never the same bit twice, always hurrying on its way. Behind me there were great stone chimneys from long ago industry, but I didn’t stare at them the way I did at the water as it churned.
Bonnie Radcliffe 