... in and out of weeds. The only way of crossing the river for miles was via an old wooden footbridge. The bridge was alive with moss and if you lay on it and it would be like lying on the most comfortable of beds. Birds would sing in the trees and every quarter of an hour the church bells, which also sat on the banks, would toll, capping off the magical atmosphere. But I would be lying if I said that this place was entirely deserted of humans. A merry band of fishermen, who obviously loved the river as much as I did, waddled past my house almost everyday to try and outwit the trout. Very rarely were they successful, due to the fact that the fish darted so fast and that they were regularly pestered by a small boy wielding a jam-jar attached to a piece of string. Undeterred however, those fishermen used ...

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