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This was originally a poultiggery. The base a home for pigs and the top for hens. The pigs keep the hens warm in winter. A bit of vernacular gorgeousness from Cowside in Langstrothdale, Yorkshire Dales.
“What is the meaning of life? That was all — a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years... The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark.”
Virginia Woolf: To The Lighthouse.
“One impulse from a vernal wood / May teach you more of man, / Of moral evil and of good, / Than all the sages can.”
— William Wordsworth, The Tables Turned
I have to admit it wasn’t just the loss of my croissant to the red kite that had left me feeling a little undone. Sketching the almshouses that morning had been, in part, a way of steadying myself - of working through a lingering unease from the evening before.
I’d found myself in a pub, caught in the drift of conversation at a nearby table. It wasn’t the subject alone that left me unsettled — though the tones of fear and division were unpalatable — it was the casual certainty with which it was all delivered, as if such views needed no pause or discretion for those in earshot. And that is, perhaps the most worrying thing, for me. The lack of discretion for others.
Perhaps it was just a mood, a passing pocket of noise. But lately I’ve found myself more affected by these moments — more sensitive, perhaps.
It left me feeling adrift — not in conflict, but dislocated. So I rose early the next day and set about a walk that looped near the town and then took me away alongside the Thames.
Henley is already stirring — oars clattering, voices rising over the water. Even in the morning calm, there is a sense of the town’s choreography.
It is one of those days when the light plays tricks along the riverbank.
The water lay still enough to mirror the sky, turning boathouses upside down and folding trees into the current. At times, the Thames seems less a river than a mirror — a corridor of thought, holding the world and my own tired mind in delicate suspension.
Fawley Court pirouettes beyond the floodplain, half-shrouded in trees, its Wren-like symmetry softened by time. Then Temple Island — the Palladian pavilion afloat midstream — flickers in and out of focus. I pass it without slowing. The further I walk, the more the edges of the world seem to loosen.
Blossom frames the fields — hawthorn is thick in the hedgerows, horse chestnuts are illuminated with alabaster sconces. They make me think of Hockney.
Then, from a hedge ahead, a sudden break — a herd of roe deer startle into motion. They leap into the open, weightless, then vanish in a single movement into the trees. The shock of it all leaves a gap in the world — and into that gap I step.
And then I see it — a mirage perhaps - a flicker of movement that at first seems to hover above the meadow, a shimmering ribbon caught between air and earth.
But it isn’t a mirage - it is impossibly real: the Hamble brook - a chalk stream — rare and wondrous — slight, silken, and crystal clear. It rises only when the water table lifts it to the surface; at other times it travels unseen beneath the grass. Today, it runs bright through the grass — a luminous thread drawn across the field.
Beneath its surface, the meadow seems to live and breath — long grass — caught in the current, wriggling and swaying as if in conversation with the stream. I sit beside it and stay for a while.
The water moves with a quiet resolve. Nothing clamours for attention. No revelations announce themselves. And yet, in those few minutes, I feel something begin to settle. As if the coolness of the brook is loosening my thoughts. A silent act of renewal.
Streams and rivers have always held symbolic weight for me — they mark the passing of time, the flux of life. Elif Shafak writes that “rivers are fluid bridges — channels of communication between separate worlds... the past to the future, the spring to the delta, the visible to the invisible.”
Here, in the shimmer of that stream, all those threads seem to meet.
A little further on, the noise returns — but this time, I feel embraced by it. Hambleden Lock comes into earshot before it comes into view. The sound isn’t jarring — simply the yang to the yin of the chalk stream. I stand on the walkway and watch the water pass. Where the brook has gifted me solitude and perspective, the lock has re-invigorated me.
Crossing over, I see Henley gathered in the distance — its rooftops softened by the afternoon light. Along the riverbank, I spot two swans, bright against the deep folds of water. My mind, with renewed clarity, latches on to Helen Macdonald’s words in Vesper Flights:
“I thought of how there are always counter-narratives, hidden voices, lost lives, other ways of being... and how it is possible to see a different, more inclusive England in the most recondite of traditions… Small things. Swans, rivers, boats, currents…”
In the end, it wasn’t pub coquetry or bravado that shaped me, but the things I could see and touch — the small things.
And so my walk became a kind of mentor — offering, in its quiet way, something to lean into - a way forward. I began to realise that growth doesn’t come through argument or resistance, but through intimate observation of the world around us — a quieter kind of curiosity that draws meaning from what is present, not merely from what is projected. I feel a need to re-cultivate ways of seeing — ones that gently unpick the habits of passive, virtual absorption, and return me to what unfolds before my eyes. From deer in flight, grass in motion, a stream that lingers in the mind as much as the meadow. And ultimately, from the wise, slow turning of the Thames — where there came a serenity of swans, poised and composed, offering a gentle counterpoint to all that might seek to unmoor me.
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Henley Riverside Walk
Henley on Thames is lovely, and this walk is a wonderful way of spending a morning away from the hustle and bustle before you head back into town. I've recorded my walk on OS Maps - you can see it here.
Riverside Buildings and Vistas (Pure Scroll - No Words)
Here are some more photos from my walk.
Awning is out. It's nearly summer! I also have a rear tent that I throw up at the back when it gets really warm. I leave the tailgate open during the night and it keeps me cool.
Andy Marshall
Environment Agency
Re-set at Hambleden Locks
The timing feels right. It’s a singular day with a singular sunrise that’s reflected and repeated innumerably in a host of dew drops in the field before me. A walk along Mastiles Lane.
The landscape here is storied with several thousand years of human interaction. Its narrative unfolds from a single visual perspective and can, on occasion, jolt the senses from one extreme to another. A walk alongside the Wharfe.
We sit beside the porch and take in the churchyard. Whilst we rest, billows of dust plume out of the porch entrance. The dust-busters are in. A walk through Arncliffe.
A fresh and growing perspective on the places I visit.
This members-only video collection offers aerial views and short clips of buildings I’ve photographed across the UK. From churches and castles to mills and manors, these videos give a different way of seeing — revealing the shape of a place, its setting in the landscape, and the atmosphere that can’t always be captured in a still image.
Whether it's a drone sweep over a quiet churchyard or a short pan across centuries-old stonework, each clip offers a sense of presence — a way to experience the buildings I visit as if you were there.
Click through to explore the collection — a unique window into the spirit of place.
Andy Marshall
Andy Marshall
Andy Marshall
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Photographs and words by Andy Marshall (unless otherwise stated). Most photographs are taken with Iphone 14 Pro and DJI Mini 3 Pro.
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