A couple of days ago, musing as one does, a memory flitted through my mind from some years ago. I was sitting in silence, something i rarely do. It was a memory from my old home in Gara Bridge, it must have been at least five years since we left that valley, but I will never forget the various experiences and memories that period of my life entailed.
Like swimming in the shallow Avon. Like exploring the woods and finding a tree from which to string a rope-swing. Like the time when the snow came and we were left stranded. Like the Frisbee I lost in that second tree in the field across the road, the one that winked bright pink at us everyday as we drove home; so well lodged that for all I know it could still be there.
But this specific memory that I thought of was linked to the source of my inspiration.
Gara Bridge spans the narrow breadth of the River Avon, and lies centrally in the valley which I knew as home for several years. With footpaths and woodland, a young boy with a dog could find endless enjoyment, and looking back I feel a great nostalgia at those peaceful times when I would wake late on a Sunday, pull on a T-shirt and shorts and walk barefoot through the woods until I met the river where I would begin to paddle downstream.
Past the bridge itself was where the log lay. Somewhat deeper into the woods, and past where the weir turned the smooth jet black of the water into a gushing, white torrent and where the ley-water split off to the left, serving a long since abandoned mill. It was less of a log and more of a tree, as I can remember clearly the mossy top being so broad so as I could lie down flat with my feet dangling into the water on either side. How it had lodged itself into the bank at that specific spot I could not tell. But lodged it had become, and for me as a boy just recently past double digits, it provided quite the special location.
It was mine. I remember thinking. My special spot that nobody else knew about. And indeed, the route down to it did involve a prickly trek through holly bushes followed by a descent of the steep and crumbling riverbank that few other than determined boys with too much time on their hands could traverse.
It was here that I used to sit in the spring sunshine and think about absolutely nothing. Maybe I thought of things, but it was all meaningless really. And for me that was really the point. I gained a lot of inspiration from this spot on the Avon, and while in retrospect, what ideas of story-lines, poetry, nonsense and everything in between I did have seem complete rubbish, It nevertheless remains a fond memory in my eyes.
Perhaps I realised even then that one’s imagination can take them anywhere one wishes. And even though this will often lead to meaninglessness and confusion, it is the process wherein lies the pleasure.
Writing now, I have a distinct urge to return and see that the tree hasn’t been swept away. I hope it hasn’t. But I will understand if it has.
Til next time,
Stay Hydrated.