All rivers have their own character and move at their own pace. The ancients considered that they had their own spirit and lit candles in their honour. Some they likened to gods. Each great river starts as but a small trickle. To begin with there is the headlong urgency and rush of the raging mountain stream. It is like an untamed wild animal that can’t be contained. It wants to force asunder everything in its way. Gathering mass and solidity it slows and comes into its own. As the river gets closer to the sea it arrives at the plains where it starts to meander. It goes this way and that. It flows lazily with the contours of the land. No longer in a hurry it knows what it is and where it is going and so it looks like it is without direction. It is like a great bird carried by the wind. It moves without moving. It takes in the beauty of the landscape and relishes being a part of it. And as it floods, it gives back some of what it has accumulated before it finally merges into the sea.