A story commissioned by 900 Voices written by Rose Croft
Once, in a time when the winters were cold, and the Summers were always long, there lived a young boy from the Fens. He grew up along the River Nene and spent most of his days paddling about in the water and fishing off it's banks. He loved everything about the River, from the gravelly grind under his feet on the banks, to the earthy algal taste left in his mouth after swimming.
As he grew into a young man, his days began to be taken over by work that needed doing on the surrounding land. Like many fen folk, the young man helped to manage the large machines that were used to grow and to harvest the food that filled the Bread basket of England, East Anglia.
Day by day passed, the young man always working hard and long hours on the rich fertile land. But as he worked, he dreamed of a different life. He would look up and he would see the beautiful Red Kites soaring above his head, and he would watch them hovering over the hedgerows as he ate his lunch.
He dreamed of adventure awaiting him. He wished for freedom.
So he saved up his money and he bought an old boat. Each week, he would work and work on his boat, until it was the finest boat on the whole River. His wages nearly all went to fixing it up and making it strong. Day and night, he could seen, hammering, or painting, or sanding his beloved boat.
Finally the day came when he was ready to leave.
The willows growing by the water were lush and green, trailing their limbs and swaying gently. The sun was warm and the fields along the river banks were yellow and thick with oil seed. He said goodbye to his friends and his family, pulled on his old hat, and he began the epic journey along the River Nene to The Wash.
The sights of the River enraptured the young man, he thought he knew the Nene well, but as he travelled on along it's winding waters, he saw sights and heard sounds he had never encountered before. He passed unfamiliar faces working by the water and singing songs he had never heard.
The river was often thin, meandering and strange or sometimes so wide that many boats could pass each other safely with no worries of bumping or scraping. However when the day was still, the young man would listen out for the haunting yet familiar sound of a Peewit, or look for the familiar shadow of a Marsh Harrier. Everyday he would squint up into the wide expanse of flat sky, to find the fork tailed silhouette of a red kite against the sun and he felt the thrill of Freedom in his heart.
This was his river.
The days weren't always easy. Sometimes the rain would pour down relentlessly, swelling the river banks up like an over-ripe plum and causing water to spill out onto the land. When this happened, the young man would have to find something strong to anchor his boat on to so he would not be stranded on shore or capsized. As the weather became colder, and the surface of the River began to freeze, the young man's journey slowed and he spent nights wrapped up in blankets huddled by his wood fire.
One frosty winter's day, while the young man was warming his fingers around a steaming mug of tea beside the fire, what did he see but a group of ice skaters speeding past. Their skates snaked elaborate patterns across the frozen surface and their voices rose above the wind in delighted laughs and shrieks.
He called and they stopped to greet him. Amongst the skaters was a rosy cheeked young woman in a red scarf and mittens who smiled warmly at the young man, heating his insides more than his wood burning fire had all winter long.
Each day as the fish dozed below the frozen river blanket above them, the young woman would visit the boat and the two would walk along the banks or slip and slide over the ice laughing and falling into one another. By the time the Spring arrived to thaw out the frost, the still, hard river surface became a rushing, gurgling, lively body once more, the young man had asked the rosy cheeked young woman to be his wife.
The two travelled together the rest of the journey along the Nene, passing beautiful wildflower floodplain meadows and listening to Curlew calling from the field on the other side of the river. By day they told each other stories of their lives. In the dusky evenings they would watch the birds swoop low over the glassy river surface to catch insects.
As time went on, they found a home along the shore near the mouth of the river; a cosy little cottage overlooking the beach. The young man became a Lighthouse keeper, keeping the lamp polished and shining brightly out over the green Wash as the terns circled and called out to one another in harsh voices echoing out along the shingle shores.
Many happy years passed. Memories replaced youth and vigour. But as time wore on, the rosy blush in the woman's cheeks faded, and early one chilly Autumn morning, as the willow trees let their pale yellow leaves drift down into the water, she died.
The man, now bent and wrinkled with age, was heartbroken. He spent his days alone, walking along the river and missing the warm mittened hand he had held for so many years. He decided that he couldn't stay in the little cottage any longer; there were just too many memories of his lost love. So, he uncovered his old boat, unused for so long, fixed it up and began the journey back along the Nene, in land, towards his childhood home.
He had only been travelling a few days when a thick fog formed over the surface of the river and all across the surrounding lands. It brought with it a chill that crept into the old man's bones. Days passed. The fog hanging heavy and wet over everything, clinging to the man's clothing and making him even more miserable.
One evening, as the Sun was sinking into the murky gloom of the horizon, something amazing happened. The old man was huddled up close to his fire when a strange whooping reached his ears. It got louder and louder until a cacophony of deafening whoops were cutting through the mist to fill the air.
As the old man scrambled out of his boat he was just in time to see the beginnings of a huge flock of Swans circle and land noisily but gracefully on the River! What a sight it was. At first the noise overwhelmed the poor old Man and he bent double and covered his ears. But soon, he stood up slowly amongst the clammering and the honking and he smiled. He began laughed and whooped along with the birds, his old hands rising up above his head into the damp mist. The swans had come to the end of their long journey from the north, but his was just beginning again.
From that day on, the old man's heart began to slowly mend. He travelled along the river back towards the fens where he remembered playing as a child. As the winter drew in and the hedgerows became coated in a dusting of snow, the old man began to see many many Red Kites roosting together in high tall trees and swooping and chasing one another in breathtaking aerial displays.
One day, as he was wandering up a path next to the the river after mooring his boat along the chilly but not yet frozen waters, a beautiful bridge loomed before him. The bridge had three arches and a path leading across it. A sign nearby read 'Milton Ferry Bridge.'
The old man walked to the bridge and slowly made his way to the very centre where he stared down into the water. Reflected in the gently lapping surface was a clear pale blue sky and occasionally the streak of a wobbly bird shape reflected in the river. Suddenly appearing out of nowhere was a flash of bright turquoise dashing across the rippling expanse. He looked up into the sky to see what was reflecting into the water, but quickly realised that it wasn't a reflection; it was a bird, skimming the smooth surface of the water down below. A kingfisher.
Excitedly, leaning over as far as he could to see the small bright bird, the old man suddenly lost his footing and tumbled head first over the bridge, breaking the glassy surface with an almighty splash! The cold was nearly unbearable on the old man's body and he flailed about to try to gain his senses as the cold had shocked him so much. Then he felt a hand reach out and grab his collar and arm, yanking him up out from under the surface and dragging him onto the bank.
As the old man lay on his back, shivering and gasping for air he saw a face come into focus above him, a fuzzy halo of white hair around it and wide worried eyes as startlingly blue as the sky overhead. A stranger had saved him. He explained that he was fishing by the river as he often did and had seen him fall in. The stranger took the old man back to his home, closeby, and made him a hot drink and wrapped him in blankets, and the two talked late into the night.
The stranger was full of energy and life, quick to laugh and always ready to listen to the old man's stories of the river and of life as a lighthouse keeper. He called the River the Nen, not the Nene, which he explained was what all the folk called the river in Northampton, where he grew up. The longer the two men talked, the more they liked each other.
All through the winter, the old man stayed with the stranger, and the two became the closest of friends, sitting everyday on the side of the Nene and talking and laughing. Every evening, they would sit in silence together watching the ripples lap at the side of the old man's boat.
He would think of his life along the water. He remembered the Red kites, leading him to freedom. He remembered the Pewit and the Marsh Harrier, reminding him how much he loved the river. He remembered the Curlew, serenading him and his wife. He remembered the swans, cheering him on to a new journey. And he thought of the kingfisher. The stranger who had become his friend had saved his life. But perhaps it had been the Kingfisher. Or perhaps it had been the River all along.
Flowing always onwards, bringing with it life, and love, loss, and adventure. Bringing in change and washing out despair. The old man smiled.
This was his River.
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NAVIGATION
