After a night of storms, the air feels freshly washed. I breathe in delicious scents of damp grass, earth, and sweet, winey blackberry from hedges weighed down with a bumper harvest. Once again, I’m drawn to the River Nene, a ribbon of blue and green that snakes lazily through the valley. I stand for a while on the bridge over Ailsworth weir, where water spills and chatters over bright green swathes of river water-crowfoot. For a moment its steady white noise overpowers the nearby A1.
The main river is slow and silent, yet its margins are bright with flowers: purple loosestrife, marsh woundwort, water mint, water forget-me-not and celery-leaved buttercup. Together they make a loose embroidery of mauve, blue and yellow among the green – quite the contrast from the scorched gold fields I’ve become used to. But the plant that catches my eye is trifid bur-marigold, with its understated, button-like golden flowers. Its name comes from its mostly three-part leaves and fruits that are tipped with barbed bristles, ready to hitch a lift on passing cattle, dogs, maybe an otter, or even humans.
