There was a gap in the cold grey sky, a sheet of blue optimsm towered above us as Sherlock and I chanced our arms (and legs) and set off for head weir on the River Otter. We squelched along by the mill stream and up through the woods to the sound of a brimfull river thundering over the weir. Pausing weirside I noticed that the salmon ladder was taking a bit of a beating by the current. The end panel bent back and waving like a flag in surrender. The ground was littered with spent beechnut husks; no longer crisp and marble like but now waterlogged and mud filled. It was akin to hiking up a hill made of muesli.
It is customary (according to Sherlock) that at the top of the hill we briefly trespass onto a farmer’s pasture. Here I can enjoy the panoramic view whilst Sherlock goes bat shit crazy and runs around in ever decreasing circles. When he eventually comes to a standstill he looks up at me as if to say “I’ve no idea why I do that either” I don’t even bother to ask the question anymore.
Much to Sherlock’s dissappointment we saw no squirrels today as we continued along the high path. Infact, apart from a few mallards, a bedraggled cormorant and a small flock of fieldfares, all wildlife was in hiding. From my lofty vantage point whilst I waited for Sherlock to finish investigating rabbit holes I watched the river hurtle past the neglected fishing hut on the opposite bank. Just downstream there was a small weir long since dismembered by the years of winter rains. Across the weir remnants, lay a recently fallen ash tree. It bobbed rythmically with the river. There appeared to be a smaller log lying on top; this log swayed a long in perfect syncronicity. I thought it was strange that the power of the current hadn’t dislodged this log along time ago. Then it moved and I noticed that the “log” had two beady, piercing eyes and they were peering back up at me. The watcher had become the watched. Until the otter became bored and slid beneath the bobbing bow and out of sight. Sherlock was oblivious to all of this of course. He is the only dog I know that can walk a mere whisker away from a pheasant or a rabbit without even noticing. To be fair to him; he can spot a crisp or biscuit from twenty yards away.
The sky beyond the woods began to turn overcoat grey, the temperature started to fall and a brisk wind set the barren branches off into a crazy rythmn as they clattered together. We began the trudge back. Sherlock constantly turning back to check on the sky, which by now had turned to a darker more menacing shade of grey. We hurried along and beat the rain back to the van with a minute to spare.