You can hear the river from the house. As the rain persisted, the volume increased. From the warmth of the house, we watched the burn spill under the bridge, like gallons of ale. The water had started to creep up the garden. That night, after good food, wine, cheese, and the latest family news, I propped myself up in bed and read Bill Drummond's story about the Penkiln Burn to the soundtrack of the river racing down the valley. In the morning, the rain had passed. We explored Garlieston & The Isle of Whithorn, but more of them on another post.
The next morning, before we headed for the M6 and home, we took a walk around the garden. The smell of wet grass and moss cut through the air. The water had subsided, and the Penkiln Burn shimmered in the morning sun, the raging torrent a distant memory. There's a bench facing the river, a handy place to watch the water swirling in the pool, and look out for the tell tale rings on the surface where a fish has just risen to snatch an unsuspecting fly. I'd just stopped filming the water under the bridge when I saw a salmon leap clean out of the water, suspended in the air for a split second before crashing below the surface once again. It's a sight that sets my heart racing, it always has done since I was little, when Dad would take me and my sister on river walks to see if we could spot trout.
As I walked from the river, I thought that this was a garden on the edge of autumn. Between seasons, holding onto the past and not quite ready for the new. The leaves, still mostly green, but the appearance of acorns on the oak, and bright red berries on the rowan. The bracken with brown tinges, and the apples plump & enticing in a Snow White style. The sun, teasing with its beautiful hue, but confusing with its warmth.
As we packed the car again and drove away from Auchinleck Lodge, I slowed down over the bridge and looked back at the Penkiln Burn, a few leaves drifted from the trees and landed on the water's surface. We said our goodbyes to the garden on the edge of autumn.
