The river tumbles from the high moor down to the sea. I spend hours sitting on the banks, searching for words. What is the sound of the river?
It is not a roar, nor a babble, nor a rush. Like minimalist music, like a piece by Brian Eno, what appears simple opens its subtlety. It is both tuneful and percussive. For a moment a single note dominates, soon overwhelmed by overtones and undertones. A beat emerges, only to be drawn back into a plethora of rhythms. And as an orchestra fills a concert hall, so the sound of the river fills the steep wooded valley and in some strange way defines it.
After ...
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