Contrasts

I took a walk along the River Bann this morning. Starting in town, I followed a neat, clean, tarmaced path, which ran alongside the river and through a copse. A cold morning where sound carried. Houses flank either side of the river and at my starting point children were playing, walkers and dog owners out in force, the noise of a chainsaw rattling permeated throughout. As I walked further quietness descended, turning into one of those mornings when bird calls are heard loud and clear. If any leaves had remained on the trees, you could have heard one fall.

The river, a silent, continuous mirror, reflected the trees that overhung it on one side and the cultivated gardens meeting its bank on the other.

As the sprawl of modern homes tapered, the gurgle and gush of running water interrupted the peace.

Rounding the corner, I discovered the source; a weir in a bend of the river. This is where the contrast struck me. Behind me, a still, silent, reflective river, bound by ordered gardens and paths, trimmed trees and bare soil. Ahead, a swirling, greedy river, forcing itself over rocks and against banks covered in grass, trees, ivy and brambles.

That river felt like a contradiction. In the town, a mixture of busy commercial and residential buildings, thought to be always bustling, noisy and full of life, the river appeared tranquil, tamed into submission. As the urban encroachment stalled and the countryside took over, the river leapt into life. In the rural area, considered quieter, more sedate and probably boring to some, the river lost its calm exterior, rushing and bubbling instead, freed from constraints.

I took some photos. They could be one of those moments that sparks the idea for a story.

The weir and a river of two halves

River Bann