We have had a very wet several days and the fields at the back of the garden are flooded again. So we knew the river would be high, making the sights and sounds of our usual walk a little different.
Weirs usually dry are now overflowing with rushing, crashing, foamy water. One weir ran through a concrete tunnel connecting it to the river. We stood above the tunnel in awe of the roar of the water underneath the bridge, and the spray that shot high into the air.
During the course of our walk we saw only one fresh mole hill. I imagined the little creature with his warm furry coat poking his head out and quickly drawing back as the wind hit his little snout.
We met a red-faced fisherman sitting huddled on the bank. He told us he had caught but one small roach. On our return, later, he had caught another half a dozen including a 15” bream. He didn’t like killing them, so he’d thrown all of them back in.
The wind was strong and cold; it made one’s eyes water. The sun shone out highlighting the foliage with its golds, oranges, reds and browns – a truly beautiful autumn day. We were well wrapped up and determined to enjoy our walk, but no matter how quickly we moved to stay warm, our ears became cold as did our arms and gloved hands.
We were amused by the sight of swans swimming along with ducks and Canada geese on flooded fields that a day earlier had been lush green meadows.
We came to a weir that was usually dry and were enchanted by a magic carpet of leaves of all shapes, sizes and colors drawn toward the weir. We watched spellbound, then placed bets on which clump of leaves would first escape the current of the weir and float off downstream.
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