A late summer evening, when night was pushing the last indentations of heat from the air, the sinking dark was speared by an insistent call. This is my first “real” memory of the wren.
A sequel, two days later. I take the river way again. In the meantime water has consumed our garden for the second time this year, but it’s still a long way from the house.
The sound of rain on our coats is enveloped by the sound of rain in the trees, which is itself soon enveloped by the great noise of the river in the valley bottom.
My own “place” is not far away, and on the same river as that of Nash, the Thames (see "Of Place (1)"). As the Abingdon Road approaches Oxford city centre, it crosses a bridge.