Plots & Plants: The River Aln By George Colkitto

In Soil: The Story of a Black Mother’s Garden, Camille Dungy talks about developing particular and intimate relationships with place, adding “everyone with a vested interest in the direction the people on this planet take in relationship to others … should … take some time to plant life in the soil. Even when such planting isn’t easy.” This series of posts #Plots&Plants offers a chance for writers and environmentalists to talk about places and plots to which they are particularly attached or invested in. #Plots&Plants will act as an archive and record of places which we will later be able to reflect on as we continue to experience environmental emergency and loss.

George Colkitto was born, brought up and lives in Paisley, Scotland. An ex- Inspector of Taxes, Chartered Account, and Bookshop owner, he writes both poetry and prose. His latest collection, was Shake the Kaleidoscope (Cinnamon Press), 2023. His pamphlet Crown of Thorns, again Cinnamon Press, launches on 13th March 2024.

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The River Aln at Alnwick Castle By George Colkitto

Here, the river carries away the burdens that weigh heavily on your mind. Alnwick Castle reminds that this was not always a place of peace, but now excited tourists disgorge from buses to Castle and Gardens, talking of Harry Hotspur to Harry Potter. Their distant
voices are reminders of the buzz back in the town.

When I came with Margaret, for the International Music Festival, the Market Square was crowded: sales stalls, ranks of audience, the chatter of holidays and buying, stage alive with dance and song. I delighted in escaping the masses to walk our dogs past the Castle’s Barbican Gate and perimeter wall, before stopping on the Lion Bridge. I would admire the carving of the Percy Lion, gaze to a landscape which seems so natural but was created by Capability Brown. Trees are carefully placed, river sculpted, the scene entrances. I go on the through the gate to stroll the path along the bank.

Such pleasure to wander in solitude watching the slow river, lost in every ripple and eddy. Green foliage of the Lime trees by the Castle contrast with the pale green field running down to darker greens at the water’s edge. The joy of standing in a copse to watch sunlight scatter the ground, dapple the mysteries of dark pools. I placed a hand on the trunks, wished I could tap into their wisdom, what stories held in every ring.

I recall conversations. The spot where Margaret and I picnicked before the Carriage Driving Fair. A mother dragged a bemused youngster through the muddy field urging her to be quick so they could see a Prince. We laughed. Prince Philip, in long driving coat, muddied boots, was throwing down traffic cones to set a practice route for his carriage. This was not a child’s picture book image of a Prince, no coronet, no purple gown trimmed in ermine. A sun dipped day when youngsters splashed and dived where another grove nestled to the bank and shouted greetings. A lifetime friendship made chatting with a fellow walker: of music, breakfasts, and dogs.

The best days were when I was alone with river, Castle, trees, fields. I could listen to the beating of my heart, hear each breath. The shell built to protect, like Castle gates opened for visitors, began to dissolve, unnecessary here. Bridge arches reflected in the river, a crow high above, images that sooth and heal. Time ceased its madding pace.

It is many years since I visited this spot, COVID, commitments, age, but it stays with me. As I write this, I shut my eyes and let my breathing slow. I am at Alnwick Castle Gate. The sun shines, and now, my dead live. We head down to the bridge, there is that squeak and clang from the metal gate and we are moving through the shadows beneath the trees. Ahead the river gleams, two swans shine against grass on the far bank and the castle sits below a pale blue sky.