Leaving behind the surf surging on the shingle I headed for the protection of the woodland path along the riverbank. Eight swans sheltered, heads tucked deep beneath white wings.
The wind burst through the birch trees and danced over the barley field.
Early season, still green, seed heads just beginning to form. Surging in waves, in colour-shifting shades.
Warm westerly wind,
ripening barley ripples
a palette of green
I rest downstream of the viaduct.
Windrush in the ears. Silver ripples dancing like nymphs on the water as it burbles over boulders, whilst the wind gusts through the girders; and the river meanders between shingle banks.
After storms, when the Spey is in spate, entire trees are swept downstream. As levels lower rootballs find footholds on the shingle. Skeletons remain, leaching.
A lone fisherman casts his eye to the sky,
whips his rod and darts his fly over the current. He edges slowly down river.
I return over the viaduct, holding on to my hat. Where I had gazed upstream and down earlier, taking in those dancing water sprites as the river forged a meandering path through the shingle banks, a young couple put their golden Labrador to the test. Trained to the whistle he sits at heel. And waits. On command he dives, into the depths of the current. Swims and retrieves. Back to heel.
Then it's the turn of his kennel-mate, the black one. I watch as she repeats the task. A draw perhaps.
Returning to the river mouth, the tide has turned, covering the mud banks and the greens of the weeds and the moss-covered stones. The swans had taken shelter in the lee of the far bank.
Bands of turbulent blue and translucent turquoise marked the mingling of the fresh and the salt waters over the shallows. The river gives into her fear. They meld together.
Contented I head for Loch Spynie, and a blether with the birds.
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