After thirty years living beside the silent, clay-bottomed waterways of East Anglia, one writer is learning a new, liquid language on the banks of a Somerset stream. Here, the winter-swollen River Frome provides not just a sight for sore eyes, but a complex symphony for the ears, offering a powerful form of natural mindfulness.
The Liquid Language of the Frome
The river finds its voice wherever it meets resistance, creating a diverse soundscape that captivates those who stop to listen. Where it slides over a bed of pebbles, it produces a soft, susurrating hiss. A light plash echoes when water scuffs against a bank, while the encounter with a fallen branch results in a great, gurgling belch of sound. The writer notes a shared passion for this river music with fellow country diarist and wild swimmer Amy-Jane Beer, who speaks of the compulsion to listen when fresh water is given a voice by coming to the surface.
There is a peculiar fascination in the percussive clash against unyielding objects and the subsequent burp of escaping air that makes these collisions audible. The writer's wife observes that the constant gurgling, burbling, and bumping resembles muffled voices through a wall. This auditory illusion leads to a poignant reflection: is it any wonder that the Celtic forebears of this land believed in river goddesses, when the water itself seems to hold whispered conversations?
Listening Reveals Hidden Rhythms
Concentrated listening along the River Frome's limestone gorge brings surprising discoveries. Fixating on a barely submerged stone, the observer is astonished to find the flow is not consistent. The river rides up against the rock, spitting mares' tails of white froth, but there are distinct moments where that force inexplicably abates. This suggests micro-variations upstream—conflicts within currents and confusions of eddying waters—that create an irregular heartbeat within the stream.
This attentive practice transforms a simple riverside walk into a deep exercise in presence. River walking, watching, and listening becomes nothing short of mindfulness, a balm for the soul during the shorter days of January. It requires tuning in, a deliberate focus that rewards the listener with an ever-unfolding auditory landscape.
From Symphony to Murmur
The journey downstream reveals how the river's character—and its music—changes with the terrain. At the weir, the accent of the water flattens in the sheer drop over the artificial waterfall. All individual sounds unite in one deafening crash, a pounding mass of water with a rhythmic thump, thump at its foot, sending mist billowing into the air. The experience is overwhelming, a stark contrast to the subtle dialects heard upstream.
Yet, just a hundred metres on, the force and foam dissipate. The roaring crescendo softens once more into a gentle, pleasing murmur, demonstrating the river's endless capacity for transformation. The piece concludes with a whimsical thought: having been treated to this rich water music, all that seems to be missing now is the sight of a water sprite. The collection Under the Changing Skies: The Best of the Guardian’s Country Diary, 2018-2024 is available from Guardian Faber.
