I raced across the bridge, hanging on to my hat lest the wind ripped it off and it bobbled away downstream on the swollen brown River Severn. Then I slipped down the first turning on the English side, and was soon ensconced at a small window table in the Armoury pub with a pint. I like it here. It’s a regular port of call when I’m this heathen side of the border.
But there’s another reason for the visit. Out of my bag, I take a copy of the Guardian and my spyglass. The latter I focus on the willow trees opposite, their branches lashing in the wind. Their leaves spin down, drifts of them eddying back into the bank. The wild persistence of the wind reminds me of The Willows, an Algernon Blackwood story and a masterpiece of the eco‑horror genre.
