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..........