At the bottom of a large steep slope was the brook. Here my adventures began. With my small black labrador Lucy I would roam. Along the meandering path of the unceasing flow all the way downstream to the aqueduct. Three stone tunnels channeled the stream beneath the canal. One of the tunnels was blocked with piles of sand and wild clumps of grass. Like a desert island hideaway. Away from it all I contemplated. Lucy dropped a stick at my feet. She wanted to play. I was taking a break. When we wandered out onto the fields I would hurl the stick once more. The water babbled through the other tunnels. One year the brook flooded so high it washed the tunnel out and clean and tidy it once more served its original function. I never expected the secluded retreat to be gone so quickly. The river removed what seemed so permanent. On the other side the first tunnel had a wooden walkway. That too was lifted up and removed by flood waters. It was replaced with a stronger metal grate. Steep sandy banks would crack and collapse and disappear into the swirling currents. I returned home across the fields. Our house stood on a hill in the bend of the river. An ancient site where a dwelling was recorded in the domesday book. A strategically placed hillfort. Who knows what spirits dwelt there. A new day took me away from the river and down the road to school. Luckily I met another savage soul who was keen to come and visit. Together we rampaged along the river. Breaking the banks and leaping over the water. Brook jumping became our sport. Tree climbing and tunnel hopping. We channelled the water into pools we dug on the sandy shores and bathed in the sandy sludge. We returned home drenched and filthy. My mother worried about us down by the fast flowing water but we could not be kept away from its vital energy. When the clear water rose and became a sandy red ocean covering the surrounding fields we held back. Bridges were swept away and tree trunks bashed their way along. My older brothers were determined to navigate the swells by raft. They took old pallets and tied on plastic barrels for buoyancy. When the floods retreated but not before the water was too low they launched their craft. Quickly they capsized and aborted their mission declaring it impossible to conquer the Barton Brook. Upstream took us into steeper terrain. Giant sandy cliffs edged the meanders. When conditions were right we could slide down and plunge into the deep pools. Over time the cliffs became overgrown and our slides disrupted. Sometimes we would see the otter dive into the water. Kingfishers darted past almost too quickly to see. Electric blue feathers disappearing into the undergrowth. In the fields nearby was an abandoned military base. Eerie buildings with a ghostly fascination. We forced our way in and clambered over the buildings. In through the gates came the farmer on his tractor to dump his load of manure. We scurried back to the safety of the stream and disappeared into its contours. Like natives escaping the technological conquest we knew the river like the back of our hand. We retreated to our homestead. My brothers bought a canoe as a more feasible way to travel the waterway. We watched in fascination as they paddled their way along. Declaring their voyage a success they left the canoe at the bottom of the garden and ventured on to other things. We took the vessel and splashed our way down the stream. The boat capsized and filled with water but the buoyancy aids kept it afloat. We split the double ended paddle into two and each took our portion. We straddled the ends of the sunken canoe. Pushing our way along we explored the overgrown depths of our sacred river. All the way down to the aqueduct. We dragged the canoe out of the brook and emptied out the water. With the canoe aloft on our shoulders we traversed the fields back to our hilltop home. We relinquished our wet attire and my mother clothed and fed us. As we got older we took our beer, wine and smoke down to the river. We sang in harmony with its babbling chorus. The years have taken me away from the familiar stream of my childhood. My father died and my mother has moved away from our old family home. Many times I returned and followed the familiar curves of the Barton Brook. Sometimes the river had forged a new course. Our old house has been knocked down and rebuilt on a grander scale. I wonder who lives there. Now I live in the city and swarm with the masses. The great river Thames rises and falls with an unearthly power and threatens to engulf the land. Still the Barton Brook flows like the unrepentant blood in my veins. One day I will return to where my soul abides. The Barton Brook is waiting for me.