The River Beckons

This is a report of my visit to an intimate and very private chalkstream barely outside Greater London, in the county of Hertfordshire. So private that I was asked not to say very much else about its whereabouts.  I took the train, needing to travel through London at the peak of the morning commute. I hoped for a seat but when my train eased beside the platform passengers were already occupying the vestibules. Standing room only for an hour long journey. I began to read a cheap copy of John Gierach's  'Sex, Death and Fly Fishing',  noticing a  few craned necks and odd glances given the provocative title. At each stop yet more people shuffled into the carriage and by the time we reached East Croydon the crowd was so thick that we stood cheek to sweaty jowl. I put away my book and we began to sway rhythmically like sea grasses to the clickety-clack lurching of the train.  The decks cleared at London Bridge. Over the muddy Thame...