The river is lower than I've ever seen it. A stretch of unexplored stone and tree root lands in my lap like free tickets. I'm gone before I've realized I'm going to go. I see tadpoles and shout about it. I see the river fall deep from the mud and stone shore. There's a world down there. I'm almost struck to stone by it, till the breeze and the shake of a wet dog break that spell. Sun light falls on a length of old chain. It takes my historical fancy. I pull myself up the bank of nettles under the barbed wire, declaring: 'a piece of the chain bridge,' before admitting: 'in my mind, at least.'
It does have that look about it. Mr admires it and we leave it in situ, for it belongs there and some things need leaving be.
There are more tadpoles in the stream.
'The ones in the river must have washed down,' Mr observes.
'They're thriving,' I decide. There's not a nettle sting on me. Under the trees we walk, and the birds sing loud.