I learned to swim, at a crescent-shaped section of the river, we called it The Strand, because of the small bank of sand, leading into the water. Reeds grew in abundance nearby and it was lying on a bed of those reeds, I learned how to relax in the water. We respected the river's power though, always mindful of local folklore 'the Blackwater takes three souls each year.' But that fear was forgotten when we caught callies, gudgies and tadpoles and dropped them into our jam jar fish tanks. Picnics were shared with friends on the banks of the river and to local teenagers, it was the romantic spot where kisses worked their magic.

I stroll down the Barnane walk and more memories ambush me. Summer regattas, dances in the rowing club, music, and laughter shared by young and old. Tree roots grow under the aging tarmacadam, but other than that the pathway to the stile which gives access to the next section of the walk is easily accessible, after that less so.

Family walks along Barnane were the norm when I was a child, somehow I don't think many parents would be comfortable bringing small children beyond the stile now. My walk through the green fields eventually brings me to The Strand, and tears blur my vision. It is now a shallow bed of rocks. This is our fault; the thought runs through my mind.