B) Rivers

Once upon a time I said that I could never live anywhere unless it
had a seafront or a descent sized river running though it.

The best place I ever lived by a river was when I lived in Bristol just
beside the Clifton Suspension Bridge which hung in its nineteenth
century redbrick splendour over the twentieth century humming choking
A4 in the timeless Avon Gorge. I spent much time gazing fascinated at
the brown silt waters of the thick tidal Avon as it wound its last ways
before meeting the Severn at Avonmouth. Not that that was my concern as
I surveyed the eddies that claimed the woody flotsam, dragging to a
watery grave the leafy fallen pieces from the Somerset woods which hung
above. The same woods which were green for much of the year and then
turned a slow burned gold turned red turned away.

I then moved to Edinburgh where the Forth gave the impression of the
end of the sea and the large travel bridges, one red rail the other
silver road clasped the Kingdom of Fife and pulled it away from the
historical end of the earth linked by occasional ferry.

But now I live away from rivers, but near the sea. I miss the water
borne craft with low rumble and calming lap that make steady movement
and slow growing wake. I miss the opportunity to see that life and
nature continually move and lead steadily to the open sea.