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.