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You can find the current article at its original source at https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2016/aug/01/sun-swimming-river-wharfe-country-diary
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| Oh we do like to be beside the riverside | Oh we do like to be beside the riverside |
| (about 17 hours later) | |
| The mini-heatwave has been trailed in the news for days, and by mid-morning Burnsall has become Burnsall-on-Sea. Leeds and Bradford are a good two-hour drive to any ocean, so on days like this the banks of the river Wharfe oblige that English instinct to drive somewhere and slowly singe in the sun when the weather finally permits. | The mini-heatwave has been trailed in the news for days, and by mid-morning Burnsall has become Burnsall-on-Sea. Leeds and Bradford are a good two-hour drive to any ocean, so on days like this the banks of the river Wharfe oblige that English instinct to drive somewhere and slowly singe in the sun when the weather finally permits. |
| Burnsall is hotter than Barcelona today. The beautiful village green, playing the role of promenade, is covered in prone bodies marinating in sunscreen, while parked cars lining the banks of the river warm into ovens. Kids play on sandbanks and paddle in the shallows while swallows and swifts inscribe the air above. | Burnsall is hotter than Barcelona today. The beautiful village green, playing the role of promenade, is covered in prone bodies marinating in sunscreen, while parked cars lining the banks of the river warm into ovens. Kids play on sandbanks and paddle in the shallows while swallows and swifts inscribe the air above. |
| Slightly upstream at Loup Scar, teenagers bursting with energy bomb, backflip and somersault from an overgrown cliff into an abyss that is coal-black with depth but unnervingly framed by shallow shelves of rock. None seemed fazed by warnings of the dangers of “tombstoning”. One after the other lands with a deep, resounding thwack that rolls around the upturned amphitheatre of Carboniferous limestone, rainbows materialising instantaneously, almost subliminally, in each white explosion of water. | Slightly upstream at Loup Scar, teenagers bursting with energy bomb, backflip and somersault from an overgrown cliff into an abyss that is coal-black with depth but unnervingly framed by shallow shelves of rock. None seemed fazed by warnings of the dangers of “tombstoning”. One after the other lands with a deep, resounding thwack that rolls around the upturned amphitheatre of Carboniferous limestone, rainbows materialising instantaneously, almost subliminally, in each white explosion of water. |
| Related: Shifty shades of grey (and yellow) wagtails | Brief letters | |
| We settle a little downstream from Loup Scar, away from the crowds and commotion, on long grass alive with insects. It takes a ferocious effort to warm the Wharfe, but today the sun rises to the challenge. I swim slowly in water the colour of pale ale, with yellow wagtails and goldfinches flitting above, watching the tree-root-tangled banks in the vague hope of seeing an otter, as I did two days ago near Addingham. | We settle a little downstream from Loup Scar, away from the crowds and commotion, on long grass alive with insects. It takes a ferocious effort to warm the Wharfe, but today the sun rises to the challenge. I swim slowly in water the colour of pale ale, with yellow wagtails and goldfinches flitting above, watching the tree-root-tangled banks in the vague hope of seeing an otter, as I did two days ago near Addingham. |
| None appear today, but I get out and pad over curves of cream-coloured limestone, smooth as the soles of my feet, to explore the opposite bank, a mini-wilderness in the edgeland between the last fence of sheep pasture and the water. It is a bee-buzzed secret garden where wild marjoram and yarrow grow in the shade of gently rippling ash, and waist-high grasses are studded with ragwort, harebells and meadow cranesbill. The only things missing are butterflies. Perhaps this outbreak of sun is too little, too late for them; I have hardly seen any this year. | None appear today, but I get out and pad over curves of cream-coloured limestone, smooth as the soles of my feet, to explore the opposite bank, a mini-wilderness in the edgeland between the last fence of sheep pasture and the water. It is a bee-buzzed secret garden where wild marjoram and yarrow grow in the shade of gently rippling ash, and waist-high grasses are studded with ragwort, harebells and meadow cranesbill. The only things missing are butterflies. Perhaps this outbreak of sun is too little, too late for them; I have hardly seen any this year. |