Spirit of the Age: Adrift on the River of my Life
Spirit of the Age: Adrift on the River of my Life Paul Vallely Saturday 23 January 1999 01:02 GMT I WAS in a meadow. It was high summer and the grass was alive with a profusion of wild flowers, whites and yellows, bright purples and pale blues. It was a water-meadow in the upper reaches of one of the Yorkshire Dales where, the thought intruded, the flora had been allowed to regain its ancient glory (thanks to the wonder of the Common Agricultural Policy's set-aside provisions). But I put the notion out of my mind. I was looking for a river. This was not a dream. I tell you that because - as is well known - other people's dreams are possessed of a mysterious quality which renders them fascinating in their every detail to their owner and numbingly boring to the rest of us. So you must persevere. There was a broad river somewhere to the right. It may have been the fleet waters of the Swale. But I knew that my river was to the left, a tributary, somewhere through the trees. And t