Eastertide: The towering Devon hedges that lead to the river are crowned with daffodils. Like a mighty menorah, a newly pollarded tree with habit violated beyond recognition stands stark against the skyline. Below is strewn a cloak of primroses; yellow as marzipan through a simnel cake.

 

But deep in the valley it is still autumn and fresh molehills have erupted overnight. An ocean of dew has drenched the meadows and a spectral veil of mist hovers above the glistening grass.

 

Beech nuts crack underfoot and suddenly it is winter in the bare-boughed forest; emergent nettles standing stunned and frost-frilled in the clearing that separates woodland from water.

 

Beyond, amid the gorse thorns, where the bitter butteriness of a fresh flowering speaks of resurrection, beech buds are bursting and it is spring again. And my clothes are hanging from a branch above the sand, streaked with the saffron of a rising sun.

 

But the water boasts an icy grip – at 6.5C it’s as cold as I have known. Wading up to my waist, I feel the thrilling chill of the Tavy wrapped around me. I pause. The shriek of a pheasant in Great North Wood cleaves the air and I launch forward into the void.

 

I huff wildly for a few seconds before striking out towards the far bank. Here I perch on a submerged rock shelf, acclimatising in the lea of a vole-pocked bank. Emerald moss clings to trunks and, like ribbons on fairday, strands of grass flutter from branches far above head height – testament to the scourge and spate of December. The rocks are also robed in moss, and on this velvet is laid a perfect composition; a still-life array of pebbles, plants, sticks and a feather. Here is an unexpected thing of exquisite beauty which I study as one would a vast canvas in a gallery.

 

The cold has made me clumsy as I clamber onto the slip-slide-slate of my diving rock. Marley Bone circles below until I wave him away and dive into the bubbled confusion, all green and gripping. Surging up, my head breaks the surface and in an instant becomes cool and clear as menthol.

 

A thousand pins puncture and probe my skin. The kingfisher; regular and true as a church clock, powers past. Downstream, a wood pigeon traverses to and fro, to and fro, in tireless courtship.

But I head upstream, beaching myself on the shallow falls that are alive and angry; spitting crystal globules into my face. I turn into their turbulence and am sprung like a trap. Laying back, my head winces in the gelid grip, so I roll into a breaststroke to escape its pain.

The sun is streaming with the river now and two brimstones dance daintily in a delusion of summer.  Bright as sulphur, these are the original butter-coloured-flies, from which their family name is derived.

 

Bees bumble by. It could be July. I stand steaming in the sun, her warmth on my back. But my skin is red as a scalded prawn and cooled to the thickness of leather. So numbed that I barely feel the towel as I dry. My feet stumble and shudder on the sand. I trip into my trousers.

Over the brim of a trembling cocoa, I spot a sculpted trunk in the shallows; carved into a confusion of curves and crevices.

 

Dark, dense and leaden. It will look well in my garden, so is lifted to shoulder.

A hard trail uphill.

Towards home – back through the unfolding of the seasons.