A Weir

I seem to have come over all naturalistic just lately, stopping to photograph trees and water, even the odd bird. Of course I am still maintaining some self control and managing to slip in images of rusty metalwork, rotting wood and padlocks.

This weir is on the River Alne in Warwickshire, a few miles from Stratford-Upon-Avon. No doubt there are locals who claim that William Shakespeare fished here when he was a lad - he seems to have covered every stretch of water within thirty miles of his birth place, when he wasn't poaching deer or getting drunk, that is.


It's a beautiful calm setting by the side of a minor road. The river splits in two here to feed a mill leet, the flow controlled by the sluice gates. As there's little call for water-driven milling these days, the system has fallen into disrepair although it still does a good job at holding back the water.

Much as I'd love to be at Tofino in British Columbia watching the waves roll in from the Pacific or at Cape Leuwin in Western Australia, enthralled by the tussle between the Indian and Southern Oceans, I'm stuck here in the middle of England. I must be satisfied with what I have - a light breeze, winter sun with just a trace of warmth and the gentle murmur of a shallow stream.

(If I really had to choose, I'd be sitting under the ruins of the castle at Tokavaig on the Isle of Skye, looking out across Loch Eishort to the Cuillins, enshrouded in mist. The wind would be whipping the sea into white horses but I'd be sheltered by the broken granite walls and totally at peace).