Giles Watson's poetry and prose
River Ock: Freezing Fog
I am on my way to school, and running later than usual because it has taken me half an hour to defrost my car, but as I cross the River Ock on the way out of Uffington, I can't resist pulling over for a few moments. The Ock itself is only visible where the dark water opens out before passing under the road. I lean over the hedgerow, straining to see over the top of it, and can just make out the line of trees that marks the course of the Ock, winding away into the mist. I am looking upstream: up towards the source, which is perhaps a mile distant as the crow flies, but the Ock itself winds this way and that across the Vale of the White Horse. I know that this weekend I must find the source: it has become a sort of Holy Grail. I am imagining it already: a chalice of cold, black water, nestled in the hillside. Not that this is becoming an obsession or anything...
FOR A CUMULATIVE PHOTO ESSAY, SEE THE 'RIVER OCK' SET ON MY PHOTOSTREAM.
River Ock: Freezing Fog
I am on my way to school, and running later than usual because it has taken me half an hour to defrost my car, but as I cross the River Ock on the way out of Uffington, I can't resist pulling over for a few moments. The Ock itself is only visible where the dark water opens out before passing under the road. I lean over the hedgerow, straining to see over the top of it, and can just make out the line of trees that marks the course of the Ock, winding away into the mist. I am looking upstream: up towards the source, which is perhaps a mile distant as the crow flies, but the Ock itself winds this way and that across the Vale of the White Horse. I know that this weekend I must find the source: it has become a sort of Holy Grail. I am imagining it already: a chalice of cold, black water, nestled in the hillside. Not that this is becoming an obsession or anything...
FOR A CUMULATIVE PHOTO ESSAY, SEE THE 'RIVER OCK' SET ON MY PHOTOSTREAM.