Not still waters

It has rained relentlessly for pretty well 24 hours. I took the dogs down to the river for their walk and watched the water pouring like brown Guiness or Newcy Brown - Newcastle Brown Ale to the uninitiated - through the tree lined gorge. It rammled and thrashed in torment between the high rocky sides and stormed on seawards in a torrent of white sound. The noise of the water blanks out everything, and for a while the mind is blank too while you come to terms with the sheer violence of what's happening in front of you. When the elements flex their muscles we puny humans have no response. But I know that the water level will fall as quickly as it rose, and in 36 hours we'll wonder what all the fuss was.

Drookit dogs!
They say there’s no such thing as bad weather,
just the wrong clothing.
How can I explain that to two damp dogs?

Half a dozen autumn run salmon had been resting in a pool preparing to run The Loups (or Leaps), a short series of waterfalls that they have to negotiate in the final stage of their journey to the headwaters to spawn and produce the next generation of the King of Fish. They'll be safely tucked away just now, close under the bank, to escape the destructive force of the spate.

conkers

It may be autum, but the canopy of leaves on the trees lining the river bank provides a marvellous umbrella against the rain. It's mostly beech trees but there are fir trees, rowans, oak and sycamore and I can take off my cap because the worst I'll suffer is a few large drops that manage to break their way through the cover.