I cycled down the cobbled lane ringing my bell for no reason but fun, listening to the echo thrown back at me from the encroaching high hedge touching me as I speed down the track I ‘m on.

I pass cottage after cottage a friendly garden wave , an elderly gent raises a pink rose head clipped, a final news paper delivery at great aunty mawds were on the veranda homemade lemonade was lady like sipped.

I said my thanks and goodbye’s “see you next week”, waving excitedly at the rickety picket gate mounting my worn leather saddle , I dinged my bell “must hurry for I have plans  for this Sunday that cannot wait”.

weee, weee, Sunday is free I sang as my peddles spun faster than my legs, watching my picnic and books in the bike basket bounce, my scarf blowing wildly about my Rosie cheeked head.

Further down the winding ,narrowing track, the overhead hawthorn hedges now closing in ,my now fluttering scarf was covering my eyes , so to stop I began to begin. The complaining squeal of the old bikes brakes brought me abruptly to a sudden halt as I uncovered my eyes in a bit of a tizz I now wondered where I was, to my left an old rusty plough paint less half sunk in the ground and to my right a gate I had never seen before with a slow sloping meadow just beyond.

This will do, just the ticket, excitedly leaning my weary bike on the tied tight gate, I selected a random basket book, for a later read and a dreamy escape. My picnic and blanket tossed into the field followed by myself with a scramble and a knee scuff, the wild long grass came way passed my waist in this meadow for years untouched.

The first path for years started to form as I waded through the gently swaying grass, my palm tickling from the seed heads of the crested dogstails, skimming my hand as I care freely drift passed. Creeping red fescue the blazing corn poppy burst, the scent of white Campion drifts by from the woodland edge the contrasting shade of the meadow brown fluttering effortlessly on a buoyant buttercup ledge.

The disturbed dandelion seeds, drift high on their wind sails, creating puffs and plumes, spinning pools, pale patterns to blow and grasp .As I descend the quiet slope leading to a wooded hollow still shaded from the suns good morning kiss, a soft picture change as the hanging morn mist dissipates it’s welcome overstayed. What catches my eye is a giant oak leaning heavily towards a trickling stream, his branches sprawled anticipating a lonely night fall at the hands of the next big wind. By his side a bank of the finest shingle bronze coloured with the occasional fresh oyster shell fleck ,an ideal place to settle down I thought, have my picnic and read a bit. The orchestral sounds of the splashy splash as the crystal waters pattered the ancient river bed, bringing colours and fables, stories untold, imaginations of the fairies skip and dancing tred.

Like the fairies now dancing about my mind I skipped down the bank and onto the shingle shore, the scrunch and crunch beneath my red leather sandal soul startled a field mouse back into his downy home. I sat down, my back against the withered old oak tree taking in every wonder my young eye’s could see and feeling blessed and lucky that this sunny Sunday was a beautiful day free for me.

 I placed my gingham sack on the shingly floor untied the knot and peered within, two jam sandwiches a coxes apple one chocolate chunk and a small flask of mothers tea. My selected book was not the one I thought I had chose this book was tatty, dog chewed and small “were on earth did I pick this up from” I puzzled to myself trying to read the authors name on the bare thread spine ,“the Reverend chumnley murton” never heard of him ! I thought but felt compelled to take look inside. “It’s a book of poems”! well what a surprise expecting sermons, prayers and moral guides, as I fingered down the index of the tea stained opening page I stopped suddenly on a peculier name that caught my eye, plipity plop I laughed surely not page twenty two it had to be worth a try. I turned the gold leaf pages and the title appeared, I settled back against the ancient oak, crossed my feet ,had a jam sandwich bite ,a slurp of tea and and began to read.

                                                PLIPITY PLOP

Trickil flipple plipity plop, polished pebbly bottom and a sunshiny top. the winding brook meanders, as a young child without care, free without fear everything to share. The wise Tumbling trout avoiding the novice anglers hook, a shy freshwater crab his home a farm workers wellington boot, with a glass bottomed bucket the hopeful treasure hunter takes a look Plipity plopity hums the bobbling brook.

Folded floating leaves shed by a Granddaddy oak, create rickety rafts and insect boats, they carry soldiers and their queen gently downstream, to colonise new woodland to forage and feed.                                                           

 Bertie the Beaver with his silky shim pops his head out of the water with a two teethy grin, Damn the Damn!! To himself he thinks watching the Escaping brook giggle ,has it trickles through his woven sticks, no rest for the wicked to himself he thinks, then with a flippity flap, and a splishity splash he glides through the water to his twig store on the bank, selected are a few and hurriedly to the damn taken back ,stitched into the breach with a precision Bertie act. Feeling pleased with himself as the giggling stops ,to his lodge he snorkels with a flippity flop, for a nice bite of perch taken from the bobbling brook shop, a side order of snails and a well earned wriggly eel chop  a ten minute groom and a little kip on a log flippity floppity acorn plop..

The king of fishers perches on his throne o so still, searching for shimmer and glint beneath the shallow water below him, his majestic colours reflected, then distorted on the peaceful ripple, but invisible to his feeding prey going about their business under the trickle. The kings eyes set he half twist dives, his glorious blues electric as the lightning flash lights the skies, whooooosh a clean entry and a full beaked exit follows, the Stickleback wriggles has it’s flown back to the nest burrow, waiting eagerly his queen and there greedy chicks singing in harmony seeing their father has a fiddly fresh fish, globidy glob the stickleback is all gone, poor unselfish Kingfisher he never had none. Job done he flies out again surveying his territory for the next meal of the day, maybe a tadpole, minnow, or an unaware freshwater shrimp, but beware the lightning flash, if your belly has a glint, for as quick as a twitch you will be out of the water and on the royal dinner plate, the king of fishers, on his favourite perch again patiently he waits.

 The lesser water boatman flicking to and fro across the reed bed, dainty damselflies hovering, there striking colours kaleidoscope overhead. The ancient stone bridge holds stolen gold owd tales have said, for downstream gold sovereigns have been snatched from the pebbled brook bed. The Gold reputedly hidden by Zachariah doubloon a notorious Highwayman who was hung for robbery in 1762, Along with his horse and dog that stood trial too, but were the gold was concealed everybody thought they knew. Though the Bridge was searched through and through nothing was found behind mortar and stone cobs loose .But in the dead of night with no moon in the sky, if you listen close ignoring the tawny owls beech top cry, from the old stone Bridge may come a solitary chime as another secret coin drops from Zachariah’s secret compartment hidden inside.

 How I love the brook even though it makes my feet cold always trickling forward it never seems to get old. A comforting sound in the blackness about, when your lost follow its course there will be a town somewhere near about. A home, a bed a peaceful sound when needing sleep, a landmark a boundary a fishery for the anglers keep, a nursery a watering hole for the critters thirsty leap for the cattle’s stretching neck from a cramped night, in a cowshed heap .A shop ,a riverbank an Otters lodge, his damn so thick it would repel the bouncing bomb. An off shore bank were all deposits are cash free, the wondrous brook plipity plopity.

What a delightful poem I thought what a surprise taking a second bite out of my jam sandwich  now rather stiff and attracting wasps and butterflies another sip of tea I think and then a stroll by the Brookside a paddle in the water then a slow home bike ride.

Leaving the shingle bank with a dance and a twirl the morning sun now rising creating dappled shades through the foliage above I made my way along the overgrown brook bank trying to see where the brook ended up, “what was that” whoooosh gone in a flash flying low over the brook a red blaze on his back, was that a Kingfisher “well I never” the first one I had ever seen a bolt of electric blue with a little fish in his beak, What a sight watching the bird disappear into the burrowed riverbank and the distant tweets of princefishers with there thanks. Trying to keep the vision of what I had just seen in my head I strolled a little further to were the brook began to bend, I removed my sandals and now damp socks then stepped into the cold running water what a relief I thought, the cooling trickle soothing my little trotters, now the sun was rising high and by the minute getting hotter. The cold clear water now rising above my nobbly knees the water boatmen walking the water around giant lily leaves why was this I thought, the brook was only inches deep were I tip toed in narrowly avoiding a wellington boot and the little crab about to step in, then startled was I with a splishity splash as something large and brown made a triple salco crash,it then flapped past my leg what it was carrying causing a little scratch. Ow! I yelped no need for that thinking I had been bitten nipped or nibbled at. my sudden yelp made the spishity splash stop, a moment of calmness then out of the water a little head popped” why its Bertie the beaver” I began to laugh remembering the poem I read on the shingle bank, and would you believe it a mouth full of twigs, tucked behind two teeth that grinned.  He looked at me apologetically for causing my little pink leg graze, then on his way with a splishity splash, towards what seemed to be a wall of branches among the hovering haze. I followed as far as the cold brook would let, the water now rising higher I hadn’t intended a swim so out of the water I had to get. I waded then scrambled back onto the bank, my best Sunday dress now sopping wet, after wringing it out I began striding the grass towards Berties damn his work I had to inspect. so not to disturb this industrious little man I then stood quietly still and intently watched, as the little beaver with all his acquired skill began to mend the hole in the damn that the brook laughingly trickled through. just has the last twig was about to be stitched into place he stopped and hesitated for a minute or two as if waiting, expecting something to happen was it something he already knew. As if by command a flotilla of old oak leaves came bobbing and bobbling downstream, and was allowed to go swooshing through the last remaining damn hole so very nearly stitched so very nearly sealed. The leaves Carrying thousands of  serious ants ,and at their head their queen pointing to pastures new. I am sure she waved, her soldiers to attention then stood in respect to Berties kind soul as they whistled through. Into the distance Bertie took his last twig and eagerly stitched it into the really annoying hole, stopped the brook from giggling ducked his head under the water and started to splishity splash his way home.. This is amazing I thought surly can’t be true, first the kingfisher then the beaver and now the army of ants sailing through it’s almost like that old poem I have just read is coming true what’s next I wonder I think I knew. stepping away from the tree now half watching the beavers splishity splash to his lodge on the opposite muddy bank,” have a nice lunch” I shouted remembering the perch and eel chop morning power nap. Now let me think

According to the old poem after the crab and his Wellington boot, the Kingfishers flash the water boatmen’s dance there was Bertie the beaver and his damaged damn there is one thing remaining that I haven’t seen but feel I am about to soon, that be the ancient bridge full of stolen gold, the bridge of Zachariah doubloon.

 Through the trees ahead overhanging the now stream a dense dull grey which couldn’t be mistook an edifice in stone stretching precariously ancient indeed with a mysterious gothic look. As I struggled my way through the reeds and long grass the view of the bridge became clearer to see Double arched with a crumbled side holding grass and a strange knotty weed. The faster I travelled the slower I seemed to go was something telling me not to go near but I had come this far I had to go on I am sure there is nothing to fear.I stopped briefly for a breath and to catch my puff funny my breathing is all I could hear as I looked around absolute still no bird song no ripples from fish did appear. No busy bee’s no damselflies hover even the rising sun behind a cloud shied away then a quiet voice carried on a strange chilled breeze said come closer child we are expecting thee. Rustling leaves voices on the breeze reached the foot of the Bridge protected by a high wall of brambles now scratching