Donkleywood to Bellingham
The croaking of ravens far above mark to start of our journey. They are far commoner here than along the South Tyne, which is presumably due to the lack of gamekeepers and shooting interests. We have decided to make three stops to consciously connect with the river.
For the first, we sit on rocks protruding out into the water. The water is an opaque rust brown, not the clear flow I remember. The rocks are surrounded by trapped autumnal leaves that have the appearance of solid ground, unfortunately wet socks prove to us they are not. The remains of crayfish eaten by otter/mink are all over the rocks. We join them, sit quietly and allow the sound of the flow to surround us. It is not new to say that the sound of water flow is calming. It must be the oldest of all sounds, one that our ancestors experienced many millennia ago. I wonder if it reminds us of our place in the word, letting us know that we really are not separate, we are all flow…
Sound of water
Sensation of breeze over water
Images of trees reflected in water.
We encounter a group of three fishermen, just packing up after a weekend in the river. One man has come all the way from Cardiff. They have caught one brown trout between them. They blame the lack of flow due to an inadequate release from the reservoir, saying the fish are all stuck behind the Wear at Bywell. They too remark on the plethora of crayfish remains and the water being dark. They talk about enjoying the fishing even when they catch nothing, ‘just being by the river, the peace and quiet, the kingfishers and egrets, the camaraderie, having a beer together.
There are beautiful tangles of alder and birch on the track and wonderful ancient oaks and pines. But there is still the dyke for much of the way and the rather heart-sapping vistas of zealously over-green fields of rye grass on the other side. But then we all must eat – a dilemma. A bit like driving here and the fossil fuel industry.
As we eat lunch Josh takes out his mbira and we improvise a song of the river together, whose tune accompanies us for much of the rest of the walk.
Our final offering, just before Bellingham, is a little shrine we make out of sticks and ferns, with a hollow twisted trunk filled with spring water as its centrepiece – both serpent and goddess. We make it barefoot, sliding on the muddy bank. More playful than reverential but nonetheless a little offering for our day and this place.
We arrive back in Bellingham just as the light is fading.
