Stream of consciousness in a marshy wonderland

Buxton, Derbyshire One summer we dammed the brook by the bridge where the dippers bred and swam with the tiddler troutHogshaw Brook, which runs below my late mother’s house, is part of the very first landscape in my story as a naturalist. Every night when I went to bed, I’d hear its ceaseless journey to join the river Wye. I remember one year how we dammed it by the bridge where the dippers bred, and its four-inch flow rose eventually up to the heaving chest of my nine-year-old self.