The next day. Friday May 25th.
The open top bus is crammed with trippers. Its Whitsun and the hottest day of the year so far.
The air is restless.
With this strong wind unsettling the trees
and raising a dust
in your eyes as you walk.
For the first time since April 2009
I’m down at the bridge.
The water is running fast but despite the weeks of recent rain it could not be described as anything more than a stream – the remedial works prove effective. The budding flowers – pinks and purples of foxglove and campion, the bluebells and the uncurling throngs of bracken belie other stories – spring, early summer at its best. I must walk on.
Can water, a stream hold memories? Cultural understanding of water as dangerous… power that threatens to overcome us, submerge us, that takes all in its path, swept away. We are implored to respect the sea… The gorge below here which I unexpectedly found, is both sanctuary and scarred. Scaring. Erosion. Spectrality. The whole history of this valley seems born out here.
Can water, a stream hold memories?