THE RIVER WAS QUIET THIS MORNING

The River was quiet t0day. I make a point of walking down there with my husband most mornings, partly for the exercise and partly because I know how important it is to keep moving as we get older. I was a nurse for seventeen years and I know the importance of moving. I have no desire to lose a leg to vascular disease if I can help it. And if life ever does throw something like that at me, I want to give myself the best possible chance of recovery.

But it isn't only about health.

I enjoy the walk itself, the slow journey through familiar streets that are just beginning to wake up. The smell of freshly baked bread drifts from the bakery doorway, warm and comforting. A little further along, the rich, bitter scent of strong coffee hangs in the air outside the cafes. The old men sitting outside enjoying a brandy with their coffee. Yes I think it's a bit early in the day, but these small morning rituals make the town feel alive.

By the time we reach the river, the noise of traffic has faded behind us. The water moves steadily, as it always does, unconcerned with our worries or plans. Walking there has become our quiet agreement with the day ahead. It's a promise to look after ourselves, and perhaps also to notice the simple things that might otherwise pass us by.

As we round the first corner, we are usually greeted by the geese. Their mood depends entirely on whether someone has been there before us with a bag of stale bread. If they have already been fed, the geese stand about looking satisfied and important, as if they own the riverbank. If not, they become loud, argumentative and quite determined, marching towards us if we personally are responsible for their breakfast.

The ducks are normally in the river, busy trying to catch whatever food comes their way. Very smart are ducks. They dip their heads under the water and paddle about with quiet purpose. Every now and then one will drift closer, just in case we might have something to offer.

That morning I happened to say to my husband that the river felt unusually quiet. Everything seemed still, even the water itself. It was moving so slowly that it was hard to believe it was moving at all. There was something almost hypnotic about watching it. You imagine yourself falling gently into it and being carried along without effort.

The sky hung low above us, heavy with the rain the weather forecast had been promising. The light had a dull, silvery quality, as if the day had not quite decided whether to begin. Sounds were softened. Even the geese, usually so full of noise and opinion, seem subdued.

We stood for a moment longer than usual, looking out across the water. It felt as though the river was holding its breath, just waiting for something we could not yet see.

Suddenly there was a splash. For a brief second we caught a glimpse of a fish breaking the surface, leaping cleanly out of the water to snatch an insect from the air. It was almost over before it had begun. Moments like that feel like small gifts, rare enough to make you wonder if you really saw them at all.

It reminded me of the otter we had spotted a few days earlier. A curious little chap that we had stood quietly watching as it slipped in and out of the reeds, completely absorbed in its own world. We haven't seen it since. Perhaps that is part of the magic of the river. Nothing stays for long. You are simply lucky if you happen to be there at the right moment.

The water settled again as quickly as it had been disturbed. The slow, steady movement returned, and with it the strange feeling that time itself had softened. The first fine drops of rain began to fall, barely noticeable at first, just enough to ripple the surface and break the spell of stillness.

We eventually moved on to finish our walk. The spell of the river stayed with us, but the ordinary rhythm of the morning began to return. Before heading home, we stopped at the small outdoor gym in the park. A few gentle stretches, a turn on the exercise bike, a reminder to the body that it still needs to work even when the mind would rather wander.

By the time we left, the rain had begun properly. Not, heavy, just steady enough to make us quicken our pace. On the way home we stopped at the bakery and bought a simple bread roll filled with ham and cheese. Warm in the hand, comforting in a way that felt completely earned after the walk.

It struck me then how mornings like this are made up of small, ordinary moments, the quiet river, the sudden splash of a fish, the distant memory of an otter, the smell of coffee, the effort of exercise, the pleasure of fresh bread. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that would make the news. And yet, taken together, the feel like the steady work of looking after a life.