There is a hint of something just the farthest reach of the corner of the eye, like a whisper or a first touch, intonated by a brush of wind, or the shiver of leaf, or some such or other that renders it a place one cannot quite trust the senses in. One half expects something to come from behind the scene and rush with grand surprise or theatre, (and no, it will not be the swillers, too pickled, and unenthused for such effort, maybe Bear Grylls and his entourage, make up artist, wardrobe, hairdresser, manicurist, pedicurist, cook, Pilates coach, film crew, manager, sponsorship reps, health and safety officer, wildlife officer, insurance representative, etc) but I digress, again. It is the entire drama enfolding that excites the numbed down fine antennae, at last exposed to nature at close quarters. There are pockets of things everywhere. In the absence of a tree limb, a wound pits to house an insect colony or a tiny bird. Tree roots junction with the earth, and at the join, a mossy hammock or a twiggy cat’s cradle, hides an ant industry or a spidery fairground. Loose rock formations sitting on huge slabs, half damn the river in places, creating deep and shallow pools, into and out of which, the water slides, or falls or leaps or dives.
Ferny dells, leafy bowers, little glens, and grandstand exhibitions display round every corner of Glen River’s route, complete with their own micro-climates of fair or foul condition. At one, no breeze gets in, so relaxed it sits in its sheltered plane, an ageless mossy patina creeps undisturbed, taking forever, along its murky path. At another, a vortex implodes, where water catapulted from above at a rocky outcrop, dives terrifyingly down and hits the depths and sides so sudden, it ricochets as a whirlpool forcing the air above it into a tailspin, while all about there is only the shimmer of breeze. Little gullies walled by rock, slant sideways from the path. At some point in their long story, shoved from their mantled plates below by some hot irritation fed up with its torment, they elbowed space for themselves up and out of the underworld. In spots, it does appear that they grew weary with the effort and decided to lean against the world, to shoot the breeze at a lazy slant for a millennium or two. On one or two tiny shelves, to show-house their grand architecture, tenacious wild flowers sit like potted plant arrangements.