An Absence Of Willow

An Absence of Willow

'The river becomes very lovely from a little above Reading. The railway
rather spoils it near Tilehurst, but from Mapledurham up to Streatley
it is glorious' Jerome K Jerome 1889 'Three Men In A Boat'

'Never in his life had he seen a river before, this sleek, twisting
powerful animal chasing and chuckling, gripping things with a gurgle
and leaving them with a laugh&;#8230;.' - Kenneth Graham 1908 'Wind
In The Willows'

Anderson wakes to the sound of bacon frying. It takes him a few seconds
to realise that it's raining so hard, the house guttering can't handle
the downpour and that the sizzling noise is the sound of water
splattering the patio beneath his bedroom window. He drifts back to
sleep.

When Anderson wakes again, almost an hour later, the rain appears to
have subsided. He gets up and spreads the slats of the wooden blind to
peer outside. It has stopped raining, the sky is cloudless, the sun is
up and shining brilliantly and is warm enough to have already dried the
patio. His excuse for not running this morning scoots over the horizon
chasing a last angry cloud.

Once he's committed himself to the run, adrenaline begins to kick in,
coursing through his bloodstream and by the time he's quietly closing
the front door behind him and stretching out hamstring and groin
muscles, his hands and feet tingle. He reaches Mapledurham lock in
seven minutes flat. Not bad, he thinks, but the run has been largely
downhill. He's found his stride now; this far, Anderson has been
running on pavements and road (with only the fast 50 metres on grass)
and can tell from the slap of his shoes against the ground when he's
settled into a natural rhythm.

Standing between the lock gates and looking down at the swirling water,
stained with a kaleidoscope of oil and diesel, Anderson concludes that
being a lock keeper is not the most exciting of professions,
particularly when the lock gates are electronically operated from a
booth that looks like an traditional ice-cream kiosk. The attendant at
Mapledurham must spend most of his free time gardening. There are
flowers everywhere: in window boxes, pots, tubs and borders on both
side of the lock. Anything and everything static that can hold a plant
has been 'potted-up', including a pair of rubber wellies and an old
rowing boat. The colour and scent at this time of morning is
overpowering, and the drone of bees and wasps surprisingly loud.

On the far bank, beyond the lock and weir that controls the flow of
water, stands Mapledurham House. Now, in late summer, with the trees
still in full leaf, only small sections of neat brickwork, the glint of
reflected light from the tall windows, the tops of the eaves and a few
chimney stacks are visible. A short distance from the house, the old
mill seems to squat in the water. Its wheels, cogs and stones still
turn, grinding wheat into small bags of flour for sale to visitors.
Resolute, it remains a reminder of the gentle harnessing of Nature's
power.

Downstream from the lock and weir, the water flows with sufficient
depth to allow party boats from Reading to forge upstream. They turn
and moor in the lea of the lock on summer evenings to let off
fireworks, the cracks, whizzes and bangs echoing up and down the
valley. The land here rises towards Tilehurst, casting long shadows
over the water, whose darkened surface runs fast and smooth like the
fur of a water animal. With whirlpools, eddies and backwaters, this
stretch must surely have been the domain of Ratty.

Anderson's course though, takes him upstream and he jogs past the lock
keeper's house and heads on towards Pangbourne. On the far bank, trees
lean towards the river at regular intervals, dipping the tips of their
branches into ripple-less water, playing their leaves in the flow.
During last year's floods, the whole of the valley floor was under
water, the river a torrent infused with assorted debris, tree stumps,
uprooted bushes, plastic buckets, and, disconcertingly, a garden shed
slowly pitching and tumbling before crunching against pillars of a
docking platform. The lock protection was inadequate then and is now
being upgraded.

Anderson has seen the river frozen solid, the ducks and coots skating
on thick ice, performing triple salcos on rubberised feet not suitable
to water in this medium.

Along the near side of the river, the bank is barren and wide, a narrow
path of dusty earth weaves into the distance, through a field
occasionally grazed by sheep and cows. Today it is empty and Anderson
wonders why, given that there is nothing to impede a straight-line walk
over the field to the next stile, the path kinks and curves in places?
Why have so many feet deviated at exactly the same points to wear such
a weaving path? He spends a few minutes trying to develop a metaphor
between the path and the psychology of man: we are all different, but
in the same way. He gives up. Thinking clearly during such strenuous
exercise is difficult and he prefers to let his mind wander freely.
Eventually, the endorphins in his body will subdue all thought beyond
the rhythmic chant of 'No Pain, No Gain'.

After the next stile, trees cling to Anderson's side of the riverbank,
though there is an absence of willow. He catches a glimpse of a grey
shadow standing between two ashes. He slows, not wanting to scare the
heron that is staring intently at the water, its outline resembling a
bowling pin until it swivels its head to reveal a long, slender beak.
It takes flight; three or four flaps of its wings and it elegantly
swoops twenty metres further upstream. Anderson plays tag with the
noble bird for a while, though never gets close. Tired of the game, the
heron flaps its wings an extra beat and crosses the river, its shadow
rising and falling to meet it as it skims the water. It lands on the
opposite bank and seems to mock Anderson.

Behind the heron, a long swathe of grass rises from the riverbank to a
series of steep terraces above which stands Hardwick House. Opinions
are split as to whether this building or the house at Mapledurham was
the model for Toad Hall. There's no doubt in Anderson's mind, that this
grand residence (where Charles I once played bowls) with its unimpeded
view of the river, its elegant fa?ade and formal garden, was the place
Kenneth Graham imagined Toad to live. This morning, the house and
grounds are quiet and a light burns in a single window, the remainder
blindly reflect the sky.

On Anderson runs with long stems of grass thwacking against his shins
and running shoes. The approach of a narrow boat is preceded by the
'thug, thug' of a diesel engine. The boatsman is standing at the stern
of the craft, the long rudder bar held between his arm and torso,
nonchalantly reading the morning's paper and steering, seemingly,
without a glance at the river.

Close to the toll bridge that links Pangbourne to Whitchurch, the
metallic ring of someone hammering a stay into the bank shatters the
quiet. Soon after, the smell of cooked breakfasts assaults Anderson's
nostrils causing him to feel nauseous and hungry at the same time. The
quiet solitude of the riverbank is over. The narrow boats and cruisers
that cling to the bank are beaded with dew, the windows opaque with the
moisture of sleeping breath. A man arranges four of his grandchildren
against the curved wooden stern of 'River Lady', the children jostle
for position and giggle. One girl raises an arm to shield her eyes
against the morning sun as the photograph is taken, another waves to
Anderson as he passes.
Sadly, this is the point where Anderson's route leads him away from the
river and into the village of Pangbourne where there is a further
reminder of 'Wind In The Willows' as he runs past a small restaurant
called 'The Duck's Ditty'.

The remainder of the run will be along the old Oxford road heading back
towards Reading. Level through the village, the road soon begins to
climb past Wild Wood (Sulham) which has largely been devoured by the
houses of Purley. The stoats and weasels are long gone, though judging
by the curtains that twitch in a darkened window of one house and the
distant but ironic song of a police siren, there may be a few surviving
descendants. Anderson sprints towards home, not through fear but with
the full and certain knowledge that bacon will soon be sizzling in his
kitchen.

Today's run has been a joy, muses a freshly showered Anderson, sinking
his teeth into soft white bread, crisp bacon and recalling his first
marathon, completed in a little over three hours. He likes to tell
people of this achievement, not in order to boast, but simply to state
that anything is possible, given the right frame of mind and
preparation. Anderson is positive that if he can hone his tired and
flabby body, stretch and strengthen his limp and underused muscles,
anyone can. After that run he felt exultant though his bones were cold
as stone and his muscles stiff as railway sleepers. He didn't recover
for days and was forced to descend staircases backwards. These days,
with little free time for long training runs, Anderson is forced to
satisfy his passion on much shorter routes. This leaves him with
sufficient energy to contemplate the pot of paint that stands
accusingly beside a set of stepladders. A label indicates the colour:
willow.