I do hope you’ll forgive me for writing about rivers twice in two columns.
I do hope you’ll forgive me for writing about rivers twice in two columns. It’s just that when I got back from Wales, turned on a TV for the first time in a fortnight, and saw Griff Rhys Jones voyaging down the Wye and the Severn I found myself instantly transfixed. This is what happens when you’ve been cast out of paradise (aka been on holiday): you want to prolong the experience for as long as possible, even if only by artificial means.
Rivers. If I see one — unless it’s totally crocodile-infested or it’s below zero — I pretty much have to swim in it. My recent-ish conquests include the Nether Rhine (research trip to Arnhem, obviously), the Usk, the Derwent (tombstoning off the bridge by Kirkham Priory), the Wye (Pen-doll Rocks in Builth; The Warren, near Hay) and at the end of August I’ll be swimming as I always do in the Dee, catching a chill and engendering an annoying, low-level, strep-throaty type thing which will make me miserable for several weeks.
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