Floods

The awful wet weather of this Summer had kept us away for a few weeks, but time was pressurising us to cover some more miles of our route, and, if we were to be on schedule to finish in time for Mark's birthday in October, we needed to get a move on!
Entering Wallingford our determination and energy levels rose. We parked the car in a long stay carpark and, after a false start, we eventually found our way to the river and set off once more. I had worried that the path might be under water, but it wasn't. It was certainly wet and extremely muddy, but safe enough. The river, however, was a sludgy brown, the water dun coloured with mud and silt, churned up from the depths of the river bed. Quite a contract to the clear slatey green we were used to.With the river to our left and lush meadows to our right, we stepped out, aiming to cover the 14 miles to Tilehurst near Reading.
Nature in all her abundance surrounded us; proud families of ducks, curious and hopeful of some leftover sandwiches and playing follow my leader; beautiful brown butterflies, making the most of each moment in their short, but amazing lives, giddy with gladness; sapphire dragonflies danced in front of us, the choreography known only unto themselves; clover flowers wore their purple crowns with pride, their leaves tempting us to stop and search for the elusive number.
Patches of humid heat rose from the damp vegetation surrounding us, verdant and luxurious, almost rain forest like in its lusciousness. The grasses had grown taller, the willows wept deeper into the water and the hedgerows were heaving with buds, blossom and wild blackberries and, as ever, the incessant drone of insects happily humming as they busied themselves amidst the densness.
We have a strain of perenial geranium growing in our garden called Johnson's Blue and there it was growing wild through the spiky hawthorn, intertwined with the blushing pink of a rambling rose rising from the top of the hedgerow, the pretty colours patchworked into the myriad of different shades of green, dewy cobwebs sewing Nature's seams together.
As we passed along the edge of Pangbourne Meadow the cries of pairs of red kites pierced the occasional blue patches of the sky, the sound left hanging in the air long after they became tiny black dots high above us. We stood and stared for a moment or two mesmerised by this defiance of gravity.
A field of corn caught the eye, the upright ears desperate for the ripening sun to finish the next chapter of their story. Psalm 65 slipped into my mind and God as Creator and Provider was evident all around us.
The river slipped silently beside us, full and strong, her powerful currents sweeping and shaping time and place. There was a confidence about her, as if she had begun to settle into herself, an assurance that she knew what she had to do and was content to do it, and an acceptance of her role and the responsibility that comes with it. Thoughts flooded my very soul that Mark too had come to a place in his life where he too was beginning to settle. He knew what he wanted, who he wanted to spend the rest of his life with and the germ of a plan for the future that was taking shape in his head. Longing flooded my innermost being, the empty space of him and caused the ever present tears to blur my vision for a while.
Lunch outside at The Swan Hotel was pleasant with the river lapping the edges of the terrace and  the antics of a serene swan amusing, as he bullied the irritating ducks relentlessly, whilst retaining his calm pretence. An attentive waiter brought fluffy towels for us to sit on; a welcome scrap of comfort. Then the rain came.........it was sudden, chilling and spirit dampening. We waterproofed ourselves and set off again for the final 6 miles of the day. The rain stopped as suddenly as it came, but it made the climb through Hartslock Wood difficult to negotiate. Step upon weary step we headed on, led by pure white heart-shaped petals, like a forgotten fairy tale in their improbability.This was the first time we had walked above the river and, as the fields, the Downs and the villages floated past in the distance, it was difficult to imagine the river flowing far beneath us, secretly unseen.

The path through the woods dropped us close to Tilehurst with just Mapledurham Lock and a welcome cup of tea to go, and a trek though a housing estate to the main road. We were nearly there, but a map malfunction meant we missed the railway station completely and we ended up back on the path with another three miles to go to the edge of Reading. Pain flooded every part of me as my knees flared hot, and my back, strained by compensating for the mud and my non-working knees, screamed and slowed me almost to a standstill. The remnants of a watery rainbow coloured the slatey sky offering us hope and, heads down, we trudged on. An agonising hour later found us in the back of a scruffy taxi being driven carelessly back to Wallingford for a exhorbitant amount of money. Then.......we couldn't remember where we had left the car. It wasn't as though Wallingford was a big place, but it did have numerous carparks. A kind man, a helping hand and two Neurofen later and we were on the M40 and on our way home to a hot bath and a clean bed and the wistful thought that we didn't even say goodbye to our river this time. Hope she didn't mind too much.

Erosion and Deposition

The confusion set in as we parked the car in Abingdon. Neither David nor I could remember which way we had been heading the last time we walked our path. From the ancient bridge buzzing with Saturday morning traffic, and fluttering with patriotic pendants, the silver ribbon of river looked the same both ways and the sign post didn't give much of a clue either. It just said starkly, 'Thames Path'.' Thanks', we thought, as we gave up and headed into the bustling market town to look for a coffee. Lattes, paninis, muffins and a proper look at the map and we headed back to the bridge, a little more confident that we needed to head to the right, along the edge of the park and off once more into the unknown.
Walking with David, Heather and Matt had a sense of rightness about it. With Mark firmly in the middle of our thoughts and occasionally on our lips, we chattered and walked, walked and chattered, comfortable with each other and familiar, as only families, no matter how they evolve, can be.
Culham Lock and Jubilee Junction soon appeared, but this time there were more boats, more folk. The river and lock divided the flowing water into safe and dangerous, mirroring the choices we sometimes have in life; playing it safe, steady, and predictable, or taking the lesser known path, where there are pits and rocks, drops and twists, but also excitement, adventure and delights. The way Mark took! And I am glad he did. The thought makes me smile.
On from the lock, we once again crossed fields as familiar as before, except for the softness that had come upon them, descending in a few short weeks, like a flimsy filigree petticoat laid delicately across the landscape; the creamy buttermilk yellows of buttercups, cowslips and the expanses of rape seed pixled with the apple whites of daisies and hawthorn blossom. Whispy white dandilion clocks noted their own peculiar passage of time. The greens were gentler, the grey of the sky a softer dove hue and the river.........aah.........what of our young adult river? She kept alongside us, independent, yet not totally detatched, confident in her own ability to deal with the sweeping elegant lawns, dipping their toes into her watery edges; the boathouses, some broken, some chic, some occupied, others empty, standing on tiptoes in the reeds; bold bullrushes bordering both banks, and the occasional broken branch or tree root, which dared to invade her watery domain, poking their bony fingers or toes above the silvery surface. She took them all in her stride. Families of noisy ducks swam purposefully along, teaching downy ducklings the art of swimming against the flow, their efforts both amusing and 'lump in the throat' touching.
Culham Lock and Clifton Lock came and went and we arrived at Clifton Hampden in time for a welcome lunch, taken at the Barley Mow. It was warm enough-just-to sit outside in a very pleasant pub garden. As always, it was a real effort to get up and continue on. Legs were beginning to ache, the chatter drying up in the determination to reach our destination at a reasonable time and four weary walkers rejoined the path and relied on the river for energy and motivation for a while.
A field of excitable cows ignited the adrenalin and we giggled and gasped in turn, trying not to show any fear. A silly story about 'cow tipping' connected us to Mark and each other once more, and we strode on smiling.
A majestic meander swept us past Dorchester in the distance and on to Day's Lock, where more pleasure and leisure boats and their cheery crews awaited their turn to negotiate the drop or rise in the river. The cows, the animals, the houses, mills, power stations, the humans and the boats all adding to or taking something from the river, changing it sometimes for the better and occasionally for the worse. Like us; we are all changed by events we are involved in, or encounter and by those that we meet, become friends with, stay friends with, or somehow allow to slip away over time. Those that make deposits in our lives enrich us as people. They enable and enhance us and we need to value them. Sadly, events, situations and people, sometimes family, sometimes those we thought were friends, erode our very substance, leaving us broken, hurt and diminished somehow. I am so grateful for those that have deposited their love, encouragement, kindness and friendship, trust and belief in me. I am a better person because of them. For the bits of me that have been eroded, I will continue to seek to find some healing and peace. This walk is part of that.
The stone spires of the church at Wallingford appeared thankfully over the meadows, but a much needed cup of tea at Benson's Waterfront delayed our arrival at our destination for a little while. Our eyes lingered over the lazy launches soundlessly passing our riverside spot. It would have been so easy to have lingered longer, but.......... Five hundred metres later found us at the end of our thirteen and a half mile walk. Relief seemed to be the only word necessary. Our faces, hips, feet and aching calves said it all as we waited for the taxi to take us back to Abingdon, a journey where words were irrelevant.
Back at the car, a quick change of shoes, trousers, and a dash of lipstick for me and spirits and chatter returned as we headed into Oxford to sample a meal at Jamie's Italian. And very nice it was too!
Taking Heather to the train station was hard on all of us. It always is, but like our silent promises to our 'river child' to return soon, we hugged and set a date to meet in London...........soon.

Meanders

Over an absence of maybe four or five weeks without walking, and during which time many things have happened, it was good to return to the Rose Revived at Newbridge and continue this journey of ours-184 miles along the Thames Path. With 39 miles done, we had 14 miles to go today-Matt, David and I.
The river looked fresh and youthful, as she glided gracefully under the elegant arches of the Cotswold stone bridge, and we set off in companionable silence towards the dreaming spires of Oxford. A casual graffiti heart on a pillbox made us smile as we strode out across the meadows, furrowed and fenced, dodging preoccupied sheep, which steadfastly refused to move at our approach and simply stared defiantly before taking a couple of indifferent steps to the side. Occasionally, tiny lambs bleated and moved closer to their Mums wary and innocently new.
It was hard to believe that life with all its hustle and bustle, noise and busyness was happening only a few miles away. For us, there was only stillness, a quiet that soothed the soul, calmed the trauma of the last few weeks and softened our voices as we walked the miles together. We were very aware of how small we were under the vastness of the infinite sky, the natural beauty of the smooth, soft water and the forever greeness of the meadows rolling as far as the eye could see. There was the same sense of awe and wonder one feels in a cathedral, the same hush, the same sense of something or someone greater than us and the same sense of history, creation and eternity. A choir of songbirds sang in perfect pitch; harmonising with our thoughts, creating songs of the soul, sung softly under the grey vaulted sky.
Villages, spires, farm buildings and the occasional riverside garden came into view but never intruded or invaded our peace. Once more locks, gaggles of crazy geese, bridges of wood, iron and stone criss-crossed the river as she swept onwards. Reeds, rushes and weeping willows, bejewelled with tiny emerald teardop curtains, decorated her edges; hawthorn just budding, daffodils dancing to her exquisite melody.....and us. Three souls doing the unthinkable, each trying to make sense of the incomprehensible, each seeking a purpose in a life that seems at times to have no point, each trying to find peace and truth and hope. It felt good and positive and, yes, hopeful.
We became part of the landscape, part of nature herself, small, insignificant but somehow necessary in the bigger picture of life. The river meandered over the earth, her surface calm and mirror-like, the reflections of the trees, the branches, the reeds, willows and clouds forming an exquisite stained glass window, reflecting nature in all her perfect splendour. Each twist and turn was huge and altered the vista before us, reminding us that just when we feel that life is going in a certain direction and we can see into the immediate future, our life-plan, what we want it to be, it has this knack of suddenly sweeping us off course, changing our plans in an instant, disorientating us, traumatising us and carrying on, regardless of our pain, fear, terror and futility but, and this is what we are coming to understand, we are always offered a new vista, a new opportunity, time to become calmer and settle into our new direction, the new us and we are shaped and moulded by these meanders, just as the landscape is shaped and changed by the perfect power of the water. There is a reassurance in this.
From time to time along our path we came across trees brought down by the wind, or sticken by lightening or collapsed with age, disease or erosion. At first the majority seemed dead and lifeless, left for the insects and animals to reshape and destroy, but time after time, despite the desperate destruction that was visible, there were tiny signs of life shooting from the broken, bent and breathless branches. Time and again, it seemed hopeless, but life was there, hope was in each tiny shoot and we heard the message! Out of our brokeness, our lack of joy and life and hope, we will live again, different, changed, broken but with those tiny shoots giving us the hope we so desperately need.
The approach to Oxford was unexpectedly rural, with the river making her entrance secretly across water meadows dotted with winsome white horses, sturdy black cattle, flocks of assorted birds and a random kite soaring above. Still modestly shy, she crept along a backwater, slipping silently around the edge of this historic city of hopes and dreams, dropping us off at the station with a fond farewell.
Somehow, today she had patiently taught us an incredible lesson. And we were grateful.

Locks

A 7am start found the clouds turning gunmetal grey and the rain starting, as we parked the car in Lechlade to begin, what is recognised, as the longest and most remote stretch of this walk. Protected by waterproofs, we headed off once more across Half Penny Bridge and into the brown/grey /green landscape. This time the river didn’t reflect the solemn grey of the sky, but seemed a deep slatey green, as it slipped along, the raindrops dancing daintily across the surface.

We soon reached St John’s Lock, heralded by a DANGER sign, with its manicured grass verges and daffodil dressed borders, which contrasted with the unkempt grassy hillocks of the fields and the untidy reeds we had just walked across. Old Father Thames greeted us, relaxing with all the confidence that comes with having seen it all before, his steely stare almost mocking our drenched endeavours. We imagined the same scene in the height of summer with the hordes of walkers, boaters, picnickers and visitors and welcomed the solitary chill of our Winter’s day.

Leaving the lock behind us we, continued on.  This was an empty world. No houses, no farms, no churches or towers, people or dogs. Empty of civilisation and sadly empty of Mark too. Whichever way we looked there were simply fields on one side and the river on the other, except for the intermittent World War Two pillboxes, standing solid at intervals, witnessing our passing with stone hard eyes, daring us to dawdle and reminding us of a different threat at a different time.  Canada geese honked in the distance disturbed by our presence, mirroring most married couples, bickering and squabbling, each blaming the other for some trivial mishap before swimming or flying off together, their differences momentarily forgotten.

And what of the river herself? Well, how graceful she had grown, this girl river of ours, as she performed pirouettes across the meadows and fields. She swept and twirled, twisted and swirled, her river dance mesmerising and enchanting us. She showed off her new found ballet skills, her movements graceful and coquettish. From time to time she became childishly shy again, keeping to the edges of the fields and playing peekaboo with the stately elms, which looked down with the pride and tolerance of aging grandparents.

Slanting sleet struck with the force of sharp needles and with nowhere to shelter, we laughed at the madness of the what and why of it all. The locks, Buscot, Grafton, Radcot, Shifford came and went, each one different and unique in its detail and configuration but each one having the same purpose, to keep things out and keep things in. In this case, the deepening waters of the Thames. The workings of a lock are simple and yet represent complex pieces of engineering. It occurs to me that in life we can choose to lock out painful memories, people with whom we no longer want to have a relationship, problems, worries, the future and the past. We can try to protect ourselves from that which terrifies and troubles us with gates solid, strong and secure, but if you watch the lock gates carefully, you notice that even these impenetrable barriers allow seepage of that which is behind it, for not to do so would increase the pressure to untenable levels. And like that seepage we must allow our deepest fears, thoughtsand memories to trickle into our minds, slowly and gently so that we can embrace them as part of our history, our DNA and our soul. Locking things out or in, denies us the opportunity to move to a new level of independence, self-awareness and self-reliance. It prohibits the excitement of the journey, the possibilities and the hope.

Then the river changed. As she looped around Chimney Meadow, she grew darker, moodier, almost sullen in attitude and hue. Gone was the dancing water, gone was the exuberance, the teasing and the fun. Hailstones hurled themselves at her in temper and she rejected them with venom. The banks were muddy, slippy and treacherous, each step perilously close to the water’s edge. Then, just as we were tempted to give in, give up and go home, the rain stopped, the grey sky lightened and so did the mood of the river.  Her pubescent sulk over, she sighed and smiled shyly, checking to see if we were still friends. We were. Of course we were. 

Newbridge, built in the 12^th Century, appeared on the horizon, arching over the Thames, just as the sun broke through the greyness at last. We finished the 16 miles at yet another riverside pub, the Rose Revived. It hadn’t been easy, it hadn’t been fun or pleasant or even satisfying, but we had passed through some of our personal locks safely and were more than ready for the journey home. Once back in the car, a glance into the soft pink evening sky revealed a perfect heart-shaped cloud. We smiled a tired smile.

Tributaries

Well, what a difference a week makes. Gone was the snowy landscape and in its place generous greens and greys greeted the eye as we headed once more to Ashton Keynes, this time just the two of us. The treacherous ice had turned to equally treacherous mud that soon cloyed up the soles of our boots, impeding progress along the narrow path leading out of the village and towards Lechlade, some 15 miles away.
Our little river burbled and babbled, racing around the corners, over the broken branches of ancient oaks, almost defiant and insolent in its thirst to grow up. Robins chittered and chattered in the hedges, playing a cheeky game of hide and seek with the water. Then, suddenly, it was gone, swallowed up by the landscaped gravel pits that formed the Cotswold Water Park. We trudged on trying to avoid the worst of the mud, and the deep imprints of hooves, following ditches deep and murky, bridle paths wide and empty, arriving in Cricklade in time for a welcome coffee in a busy little cafe on the main street.
It was raining when we left, blowing into our faces and matching our melancholy moods, and our heavy hearts. A mile or so out of Cricklade soaked and sad, we noticed a sign announcing a tree planting day. We detoured into a field, found a tent, wrote a note on a leaf for Mark, sobs caught in our throats, and made our way to a man in a high visability jacket. He found us a spade, gave us a whip, showed us what to do and we duly planted our thin whisp of a whip that would grow to join those already planted and would eventually form a sturdy hedge to withstand the elements for many years to come.
The river found us again, wider now, the banks deeper, the rushes denser. Around the edge of a field, a meadow, across a narrow footbridge over a tributary, around the edge of another field, across a different footbridge and so on for endless miles. Unseen birds twittered and tweeted, two swans appeared to stand still in the fast flowing water, ageless symbols of friendship and fidelity. The rain was still lashing down, the wind was still battering the bullrushes and the river was becoming more confident, egged on by the streams and brooks and rivulets that joined in the game. It became more confident and careless in its bravery. It occured to us that we are not meant to travel alone through this life, that we need to be joined by others along the way and that it is through those that we meet, become friends with, work with, those who become family, acquaintances or even strangers all mould and shape and change us so that we grow through each relationship we ever have. We held hands.
The map now wet and soggy led us to the Red Lion at Castle Eaton. It was almost empty but a cheery landlady provided us with lunch, a smile, some advice and a radiator  on which to dry our sodden gloves and coats. Most welcome!
An hour later found us once more into the relentless rain, with umbrellas up and on our way to visit an 11th Century church, St Mary, the Virgin. The heavy oak door creaked open and we breathed in the mustiness, our eyes adjusting to the dimness of the gentle gloom. Against the muted frescoes, the almost black and dusty pews, a red picture frame stood out, the Chinese characters black and bold, saying 'Welcome'. We stopped, stared and smiled knowingly for the first time in hours before the tears started again.
Then we lost the river again! The bridleway and the signpost went one way and the river ran off in the other, like a child on their first day at school. Memories of such a day came vividly, their clarity so painful...... of a little boy smiling, excited and eager to be with new friends, learn new things, and embrace new experiences. We walked on empty handed, falling into silence once more. We knew it was the right thing to do, we knew our river was safe, knew it wouldn't be long before we saw her again, but felt bereft all the same.
Again we skirted fields, followed dirty ditches and eventually emerged onto the busy A361 at Upper Inglesham. Turning left and with the oncoming traffic shattering our silent reveries, we became aware that the rain had stopped and ribbons of blue were appearing in the late afternoon sky. A mile further on, with lighter hearts and quicker steps, we turned off the road towards another ancient church, St John the Baptist, tiny, proud and wise and surrounded by snowdrops. The old box pews, saved apparently by William Morris, whispered the prayers of the ancient faithful, almost audible in the holiness of the place. We added our own vespers, signed the visitors' book and left.
We were anxious to rejoin the river and with the setting sun transforming the scene with its Midas touch, we saw her. However, she seemed changed whilst we were apart, as if she had had adventures of her own and was now even more confident, bolder, more intelligent, more independent and yet still ours somehow. We walked the last mile together, comfortable and safe in each others' company before sadly saying goodbye at Halfpenny Bridge in Lechlade, promising to be back soon....and we will....very soon!

Springs

11/2/12 - Saturday
Well, we've started it! The journey through the Cotswolds and down to Ashton Keynes was long, slow, windy and increasingly snowy. It seemed as though we would never arrive, but conversation with friends passed the time in a pleasant 'catch up of news, family and general chit chat' sort of way.
We parked in a carpark in Ashton Keynes without any idea of where we were and, whilst the others changed boots, socks and donned hats, gloves and rucksacks, I tentatively made my way across the frozen wastes of the carpark to ask a lady about a possible pub with a possible coffee. It turned out that the village shop did hot drinks so we headed there and bought said coffees and awaited the arrival of the taxi that would take us to the start of our trek-the source of the River Thames.
The lady taxi driver was an angel and took us as close to the field that led to the path that led to the stone that marked the source. We tumbled out, waved goodbye and set off across the snowy fields, bemused by the animal tracks that went hither and thither but somehow guided us the mile or so to the old ash tree and the stone carved with the words denoting that we were there! Standing next to the stone we saw it, drawn in the snow, a heart..........reassurance Mark approved of what we were doing.
Photographs duly taken, off we went back again but this time following the signs marked 'Thames Path'.
There was, at this point, no water, none at all, but the line of the valley was clearly visible in the vast and empty whiteness. The end of the first and then the second field, across a lane and then there it was, almost still, almost black, but there, bubbling up from a spring, forming a crystal clear pool and then flowing silently like a velvet ribbon in the sparkling sunshine. We were in awe of the wonder of it. It was like witnessing a birth, just as I knew it would be; new life springing from the darkness, new hope springing from nothing, a miracle of a new being emerging, struggling, wriggling, fighting to breathe, to survive. Nurtured by the ancient trees, the soft banks, the gentle reeds, and warmed by the wintery sun this young river began to sing her song. As we stood, a white feather drifted down. It beckoned me to notice it, to watch, as it drifted silently down to land safely on the water and was carried away, inviting us to follow it, guiding us, urging us to take the next steps onwards.
We walked, we talked, we watched and wondered as the path led us through glades, copses, over styles, along roads, busy and otherwise to a delightful Cotswold village-Sommerford Keynes- for lunch. So welcome! Not sure if we were weary or wonderstruck but lunch was wonderful and it was hard to leave the warmth and friendliness of the The Baker's Arms pub.
With a little detour we refound the path, which stretched past past silvery lakes, and ridiculous ducks; the sun beginning to slide down the sky, signalling the beginning of the end of a perfect day. We strode on, the river racing ahead of us, giggling and teasing us back to the car.
Walking with friends, sharing our lives, our children, our hopes and dreams, whilst at the same time doing something not insignificant, felt good and the journey home was peaceful, reflective and comfortable, as we chatted quietly or lost ourselves in our own thoughts. It was like returning to a grey, green and brown landscape from the pure, sparkling white Narnia world, in which we had spent a few magical hours.
On arriving home and glancing upwards, high in the indigo sky was Orion's belt, three diamonds straight and true, and Mark's star in M78 was there too, shining in the darkness, a tangible symbol of the existence of another sphere, another realm.
Inspired, encouraged and reassured we can't wait to return to Ashon Keynes to rejoin the path, to greet our toddler river with a smile, to continue our journey..........

Reflections.

Water is a strange element, isn't it? When it is still, it allows us to reflect and yet displays everything upside down. That's how I feel my life is now. Mark dying turned everything upside down. The normal order of things shattered and splintered like a stone breaking the still surface of a quiet pond. We were thrown into the unimaginable, the dreadful and the unbelievable; a life without a precious child. At first we were drowning in the dark and murky depths of insanity. We had no will to struggle to breathe or swim to the surface for air. There was comfort in the despair, security in the pain and certainty in the pointlessness of living. We were ready to be swept away without a fight to join Mark, wherever he might be.
Then slowly, with the love and compassion of many friends, we made those first tentative kicks that would take us up to the surface and into a living world, a blue and green landscape where Mark was no more. The temptation to give up, to give in, to sink slowly once more was, at times, overwhelming, but we broke the surface, breathed in the warm particles of life and began to feel the first flickerings of hope that we might survive the unsurvivable. Now life ripples at our feet, tickling our toes and encouraging us to take tiny, tentative and unsteady steps on a journey where there is no SATNAV and no-one to say that we have reached our 'final destination'. So we are walking with the river to guide us.................on a symbolic journey of loss, life and love.