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!