The beck has risen to the point where, what was a hook shaped promontory, first became an island, it does this now and again – so that’s not too big a deal, and has now become a waterlogged swamp with just small areas of vegetation showing above the surface of the stream. A bit like Manhattan, I suppose. We keep and eye on the ‘island in the stream‘ because it gives us some measure of how much water there is in the beck. I don’t think our beck has any tributaries, I think it just collects water that runs off the fields – or perhaps, oozes out of the fields would be a more apt description. Trying to walk across them at the moment is like walking over a large, fully loaded sponge. It is still raining and it is going to rain again tomorrow. I don’t normally give weather forecasts too much credence but it’s hard not to believe it at the moment. The sky is low and the horizon is close and soggy.
When the much-married Ernest Hemingway died, his last wife put together ‘The Sea Book’ that he had often talked of writing, from stuff she found in the three hundred odd bits of finished and partly finished work he left behind. She then published it as ‘Islands In The Stream‘ and it did rather well for him.
Our island isn’t very ‘Caribbean’ at the moment.