Visiting this place in the spring I found deep clear pools where brown trout darted beneath rocks and hung motionless in the current. Now the autumn stream is dark, stronger, faster and fuller and if the trout remain in their depths they are hidden from my sight. Drifts of leaves lie in stacks, sculptured into tightly packed forms by the flow of the stream or covering the surface of slow deep pools, each new gust of wind adding to the assemblage.
It feels natural to be moving in the same direction as the water, travelling with the flowing leaves as if we share a common goal in our need to return to the lowlands of civilisation yet own a common pain in leaving the hills. You are drawn downwards, eastwards towards the lowlands and eventually the sea. This stream will grow and swell, conjoining and merging until it discharges into the brown muddy waves of the Humber a hundred miles to the south east. But now the water is in its youth, rushing and falling with the carelessness of young things that know no limits to their will.