The swans are coming. It is 9.30 and despite the autumnal chill Kate, who stayed with us last night, has opened the bow doors to the morning. This seems to be something of a universal swan-summoning signal. In much the same way as my dad lighting a fag at a bus stop causes three buses immediately to arrive, so opening a door on any floating craft magnetizes nearby swans and makes them stick to the side of it. What do they want? Food? I have heard that a swan's beak could break a man's arm, so I bloody hope they aren't partial to humans. They are leering at me and making an ominous grunting noise and seem happy to have a nibble at virtually anything: the other morning a group of swans actually tried to eat the side of my boat, their beaks making a disturbingly plasticky sound as they attempted to peck a nice morsel of metal out of the hull.
We are on the river Avon now, having just tooled down about twenty five miles worth of river Severn. River travelling is quite different from being on the canal. For a start, you can go a lot faster if you're travelling downstream; Alan and I were nudging 7mph on the Severn, just for the thrills. It was a bit scary, actually, especially when we wanted the boat to stop and the river didn't. We had to sort that one out between us; it was messy, but the river lost - eventually. When you moor up on a river - assuming you manage to execute a stop without executing yourself – you can only do it at a designated mooring, unlike on a canal where you can go pretty much anywhere. Sometimes there are bits of bank helpfully concreted over for extra boat-scratchiness to moor at, or failing that there are pontoons, which are bits of B&Q decking loosely anchored to the sandy river bed with lengths of dental floss. On a windy night these give you all the reassurance of a piggy back from a pissed-up uncle.
A few days ago – our last day on the Severn – we went walking up the Malvern Hills. This is the latest in a string of Midlands landmarks, fixed in my childhood memory like map pins, that we have travelled past in the last month. They are a ridge of very high hills that look like the lumpy spine of some dinosaur sleeping in the bed of the Worcestershire valley. My family and I would go there for the odd day out in the summer holidays. Like all of the West Midlands, the soil is red and sandy, falling away from your feet in loose, grainy swathes as you walk. Pretty tricky if you are climbing uphill. It was fortunate, then, that Al and I had a massive forest of ferns to hike through on our way to finding the actual walking path because when you are lost on a precipitous incline it is useful to have something to hold the soil together a bit. Luckily the path found us and we made it to the top. On the ridge you can walk over the peaks of the literally several hills that constitute the dinosaur's great hide and gaze Westward over the valley over to Wales and the Black Mountains. Or, if you are a romantic like me, East towards Birmingham.
After a lunch-pudding of stale banana loaf soaked in hot custard from an aged Thermos and a long smug look at the mad para gliders leaping off the hill, we set off downhill without bothering to look at the map. Now this last point is essential to any water gypsy wanting to Find Interesting Things. The para gliders might have been throwing themselves off a cliff with only a giant kite for company, but we were throwing ourselves bodily into the arms of Providence. Luckily, Providence was in a good mood and caught us, depositing us by way of a wooded descent next to a cluster of houses that looked like they had been a bit ramshackle before posh people put uPVC porches on them. One of the buildings was a bit shabbier than the others so Al and I ambled over to that one. It looked like a large and once sumptuous public loo form the 1920s, thanks in part to the red tiled floor and the sound of running water echoing from within it. With a knowing wink at Providence, who sloped off to decide how to deal with the mad para gliders, we went inside for a look-ie. It wasn't a loo, but neither was it immediately apparent what it was. The entrance was large and cold, and a plastic pipe extruded from the far wall gushing water into the sort of old chipped crock basin that would fetch a tidy sum on Cash in the Attic.* A few old plastic cups with fading jaunty prints stood in the niche in the wall next to the pipe. It was a spring, and by the looks of it, this building had housed it for quite a long time.
Next to this little hall, there was an equally tiny room with a small window and a fireplace which had clearly not seen a fire in decades but was nevertheless aflame with a giant bunch of red and yellow flowers; chrysanthemums and gladioli; sitting in a vase on the hearth. All around it were placed notes, flowers, icons, stones, pine cones, shells, glass beads. Fixed to the wall above the mantelpiece were four laminated poems written by a woman for her brother. He had evidently died suddenly some years ago, but had loved to visit the spring with his sister. On the windowsill amidst a pageant of trinkets, one square of white card urged people to drink the water and to have a nice life. Another simply said “Barbara, words cannot express how I am feeling today. Love, Your Mom”. There was something so simple and human about that that I stood quietly for a long time after reading it. This room was tiny and hummed with stillness, the unsaid thoughts of the people who had left offerings and words seemed to hang in the air like a scent. It was in stark contrast to the lively, energetic bubbling of the spring next door, and it seemed that the room was almost protective of its offerings; still, peaceful. Back in the hallway, Al and I filled our water bottle at the spring and drank deeply. It felt like an acknowledgement of sorts.
Outside, a notice was tied to a lamp post announcing that planning permission had been sought to re-instate the water bottling plant on the site. If you fancy some Malvern Spring water, though, I recommend coming to the spring itself. It's further than the supermarket, but the view is nicer.
*(We had one when I was a kid – a cracked off-white thing that was deep and thick, and it took all the heat out of the water my mum would boil for my morning swill. Me and my sis were so excited when we got our posh new stainless steel one...innocent days, eh?)
