Down by the river

Work in the garden never stops. If there’s nothing to plant, there’s always something new to sow, and if there’s no grass to mow there’s always the pesky weeds to pull out from between the onions. But everyone needs a break, so we took one last Saturday and went to the river.

We don’t know the name of the river, which is embarrassing, but we do know that it runs across the village, dividing it into two parts — Below the River and Above the River. Whenever there are elections, we get two polling stations, one for those living Below the River and one for us, Above the River. Country life is simple in this respect.

In the summer, the river dries up almost completely but spring is its time to shine and nourish a multitude of life forms, from wild mint, growing straight in the water, to frogs and birds, and some sort of weird water insect that Cat played with but we didn’t take a picture of because we’re aware not everyone likes insects, especially ones that look like magnified, green lice. But here’s a baby frog. It’s frog season and the river’s got all the stages in its life represented, from spawn to tadpoles, to youngsters like this one.

It was a very patient little frog, unlike a potential parent, which dived into the murky depths the moment we spotted him. By the way, did you know that male frogs are really loud? We didn’t, so when we heard the roaring croak for the first time, we got a bit of a shock. Mating season and all, a guy must do his best to make an impression. Not so for snails. Snails take life easy and manage to look aesthetic without an ounce of an effort.

What goes for snails goes double for wild strawberries. We stumbled across a little patch just off the bank of the river. We have a cluster in our garden as well but they rarely if ever flower. These, on the other hand, were not only flowering but had some early fruit as well.

Spring is mostly about nature waking up for a new life after the sleep of winter. Alas, there is some death, too, but since this is nature we’re talking about, death is picturesque.

This tree was probably struck by lightning, split into two and has been slowly disintegrating, while providing us with a nice picture opportunity and food for deeply profound thoughts about the transitory nature of everything and how it’s a good idea to appreciate every little thing while it’s there. Here’s a clump of wild thyme. It’s a pity there is no way to transmit the scent. That’s how fairytales must smell.