Because they’re shooting pheasants round home this morning and Ellie hates the noise – she runs back if I try to walk with her – we drive a couple of miles to some National Trust countryside.
As we leave the carpark the river is high. I hope there isn’t a sudden surge and car is washed away.
|The river is high as we leave the carpark|
There's no sign however of what Frog calls ‘witches’ knickers’ – the pieces of plastic bag draped over trees by flood.
|'Witches' knickers' (in May 2012)|
There are lots of other people around and the paths are muddy, so I go off piste and head for ‘my’ island.
But it’s gone. All there is to show for the grassy knoll where Ellie and I have spent several happy hours is a band of ripples and some grass-tops.
|Grass-tops and a line of ripples: my one-time island|
Ellie is as surprised as me.
|Ellie wondering where the island has gone|
We find another spot to sit and I watch the scudding clouds and the racing river - keeping an eye out for flash floods. The sky is like a friendly giant and I wonder why humanity ever wanted to tame nature.
When we get home I tell Frog what's happened to the island.
'Is that metaphorical?' he asks.