An early spring day,
soft and mellow,
a slight haze in the air;
too good to spend all of it indoors.
We start off at the confluence of two small local rivers, just beyond the castle
and what was once the castle fishponds.
They’re streams really,
but we call them rivers,
the Clun and the Unk,
which should, by rights, become the Clunk,
but the Clun wins out.
we’re following the Unk upriver now.
Just Millie and me,
aunt Josephine’s walking stick,
a small camera,
and Eva Cassidy.
Sheep have been here before us, leaving gossamer strands of fleece behind
on sere bramble fronds
Eva often comes along on days like these,
her bitter-sweet voice is just what I need.
Millie walks ahead,
as usual following her nose
and the delectable scents only she can detect.
We meet nobody;
it’s just us, all the way.
Eva is still with me,
but quietly enough so I can hear the birds;
they are making good use of this day too.
Each one is marking out his territory,
the robin loudest of all.
And all the while there’s the sound of the river,
gently flowing and tumbling over rocks,
pretending to be a waterfall.
Somebody died here,
a hen pheasant probably.
There’s nothing left of her apart from a handful of feathers.
Millie takes a cursory sniff, but quickly loses interest.
Some other creature has eaten all there was.
We haven’t gone far at all,
an hour maybe,
but it’s been worth it.
Just the other side of the castle is home.