This winter our walk in and out of town has often featured, at ground level, a young heron, who seemed to be making a living in the shallows of the River Stour. A few yards upstream the water is much deeper, due to the sluices from the former mill site. This provides deep water and a living for a couple of cormorants who dry themselves on the roof of the sheltered housing block, or else the trees across the road from there.
The autumn rains swelled the river which runs left to right behind the iron fence in this picture. The water wasn’t deep enough to close the park but there were near-perfect reflections of the bench and bushes on this windless morning, earlier this week.
Izaak Walton wrote a charming little book on Angling, ranging through many topics, including the trout in all its varieties. We often see them in Canterbury, indeed I was once presented with an excellent trout, caught by one of my pupils, whose mother would not let it into the house, but he did not want to waste it. It was not as big as a salmon, but plenty of ‘rare meat’ for two. That fish had an empty belly, in November, but was caught on a grain of sweetcorn.
There is also in Kent, near to Canterbury, a Trout (called there a Fordig Trout) a Trout (that bears the name of the Town [Fordwich] where ’tis usually caught) that is accounted rare meat, many of them near the bigness of a Salmon, but known by their different colour, and in their best season cut very white; and none have been known to be caught with an Angle, unless it were one that was caught by honest Sir George Hastings, an excellent Angler (and now with God) and he has told me, he thought that Trout bit not for hunger, but wantonness; and ’tis the rather to be believed, because both he then, and many others before him have been curious to search into their bellies what the food was by which they lived; and have found out nothing by which they might satisfy their curiosity.
Izaak Walton, The Complete Angler, 1653.
Start reading it for free: https://amzn.eu/3T59M
These lines are part of a song in the Compleat Angler of Izaac Walton, written by John Chalkhill, his relative by marriage. Chalkhill was a friend of the poet Edmund Spenser.
Snow on the ground in the photograph, but one day in Spring I chose this piece for a Summer’s day, trusting that there might be ‘excessive heat’ coming the reader’s way. I was editing it soon after cutting down osiers; the previous year’s growth of coppiced willow, as seen above. Often they are grown within a slow-moving river. Then again, I find myself walking under willows almost every day beside the River Stour. I often had occasion to shelter under willows during my time as a very incompleat angler in Ireland. I did catch a very respectable pike once and good eating it was too!
If the sun's excessive heat Make our bodies swelter, To an osier hedge we get For a friendly shelter! Where in a dike, Perch or pike, Roach or dace, We do chase, Bleak or gudgeon, Without grudging, We are still contented. Or we sometimes pass an hour Under a green willow, That defends us from a shower, Making earth our pillow Where we may Think and pray, Before death Stops our breath: Other joys Are but toys, And to be lamented.
One of the joys of the Glebe’s position beside the river is the dragonflies that hawk and hunt about the place in late summer. This one had just emerged from the river and was pumping life into its wings and the colours along its back were beginning to glow. A special moment.
There have been two times this year when I breathed more freely, both occurred when the weather was fine, but that was not the only reason.
We go back, first of all, to the Monday when schools reopened for all pupils. I don’t know what homework was set that day, but I was walking through the city around 5.00 p.m. and there was a tangible air of joy around the place. It felt as if every teenager had gone home and dressed in their best and now they were gathering in the parks, on the steps of the theatre, in the disused car park – now adopted by skate-boarders, roller-skaters and people too young to use the electric scooters scattered around the town.
Everywhere though, the buzz of face to face chatter. It was so good to witness the love and solidarity bubbling up all around the town.
There followed weeks of inclement weather, a cold, dry, April, a cold, wet May. Dedicated walkers ventured out, many people did not seem to. Then this last long weekend, with a bank holiday Monday was endowed with sunshine and warmth. This picture was taken quite early in the day in one of the big city centre parks. The building in the background is Tower House, official residence of the Lord Mayor. The River Stour flows along the left of the picture behind a stone wall. It is liable to flood in wintertime but now entices young and old to look for fish or feed the ducks. When my grandson was 18 months old he ran across the grass to join some Italian students playing rugby.
I wonder when we will be welcoming language students again, but this weekend it has been good to see our own young people enjoying each other’s company.
In central Canterbury, between the Marlowe Theatre and a branch of the River Stour, a short new footpath was created a few years ago; it’s a useful off-road cut through for the family Turnstone making for home.
This dogwood (cornus) was cut to the ground a year ago. For another month it will be shining on grey days as well as sunny; then it may well be pruned hard again. I must check on my cuttings!
I’m considering turning the shed into a boat. The Stour has found its way into Westgate gardens in Canterbury, so the park will probably close tomorrow as there’s more water falling upstream as well as here. The ducks don’t mind.
A few pictures from an evening walk beside the river, with the mist settling over the meadows. This morning felt like Autumn; this evening like the start of winter. The train climbs to cross the river and enter Canterbury East station, taking people home.
Would you draw the curtains with the full moon shining in?
As I went to post a letter, the crescent moon called me to walk further. Now or never, as she was going down, accompanied by Jupiter. A little way upstream from the bridge there’s an opening to the river. Someone said it was a ford, and indeed there are cobbles leading down it. Two swans were there, keeping an eye for a human with food, no doubt.
Not much moonlight here, some reflection from street lamps, enough to give an impression of the pair that could maybe be worked up into something. There they are, paddling patiently against the current, till the one who feeds them arrives.
Will Turnstone 