And we're off
What a delight it is to see a river for the first time after a winter. To catch a first glimpse of the babbling waters of an old friend through branches just beginning to bud green, and to sense in that expectant look not only the turmoil of the winter-past but auguries of the season to come. I've never seen my secret Sussex stream looking so good, with almost a dash of chalkstream about it. It was too cold and wet for a picnic so the boys went off to a nearby softplay centre. An hour to myself. It's all I needed. The river's verges were damp after an abnormally rainy winter. That explained the profusion of cuckoo flowers, a plant which likes to keep its roots moist. They sprouted liberally in the meadows beside the river, adding a pretty pink gloss. In folklore picking cuckoo flowers brings bad luck, because they are said to belong to fairies. Whole trees had uprooted and fallen into the river. Nobody cares for this forgotten place, so the toppled chaos of oak and goa...
