Meditative at Morpeth

Wildflowers on Morpeth Meadows

A couple of weeks ago, quite early in the day, I went for a walk near Morpeth, the historic town on the Hunter River not far from Maitland.

Morpeth Meadows

In Australia I seldom find myself in water-meadows alongside a river. There was a hint of manure in air, weighted-down under a heavy sky, threatening rain.  I doubt the locals call them water meadows – that’s very English - but then again, I possibly wasn’t walking anywhere they knew, for at the riverbank, as I wondered if the river ever flooded, my mind went to another time, another river.

Water Meadows near Eynsham, Oxfordshire, UK

The meadows on the edge of the river near the Oxford village of Eynsham, where I grew up, flooded most years. Liberated from the Thames’ staid path, the water crept out at first, wriggling through the grass until gaining confidence, it flowed, gliding over the green meadows to effect enormous shallow lakes. The floodwater mirrored the sky - wavering from grey to blue to silver, imitating moving clouds by fleeting shadows, as if revelling in its abandon, refusing to acknowledge the very course of the river itself which had disappeared.

Mrs Mops, was the name of my horse. A big-hearted bay mare. I enjoyed riding, exploring the byways and bridle-paths around the village.  Something I didn’t share with anyone was that riding  had taught me I had a limited appetite for physical danger.  

Mrs Mops and Me! Outside our house in Eynsham, Oxfordshire. Must have been on the way to a gymkhana. 1962. She was a sweet-hearted horse and we had many adventures together and I think she knew my limitations!

I was out riding with Catherine MacGregor. She was a few years older and had a confident seat on Velvet, her big, bold, black gelding. We were ambling along the road, chatting, when Catherine looked over my head and shouted, “Look, look at the meadows!”

I saw a silver sea glinting through the trees.

“Wow, let’s go for a gallop.” She turned in the saddle, black curly hair escaping her brown velvety riding hat, her dark eyes dancing with anticipation.

I said little, hoping that by the time we got to the gate, Catherine would see the idea of a gallop was pure folly. We could end up in the river that meandered in the shape of a horseshoe. Neither we nor our horses could see tussocks or rabbit holes. Bits of wood and debris floated on the flood. Sometimes farmers fenced off parts of the meadows and left bits of wire or threw the fences flat. I was sure she would change her mind, there were far too many hazards.

Catherine guided Velvet off the road, down the muddy track and through the open gate. As soon as he splashed into the water, his nostrils flared, ears pricked, sensing adventure. 

“Are you up for this?” she called.

“I’m not sure…” I confessed, trying to keep Mrs Mops on side for she had sensed Velvet’s lead and was dancing sideways, shying from the splashing water. My stomach turned, I knew it was too late.

“You’ll be fine, just give Mrs Mops her head,” said Catherine, “All’s well – carpe diem!”

Velvet took off like a war horse. His thundering hooves, spraying so much water that his massive haunches took to the air, surreal above a billowing fog of spritz. On and on we galloped. Hell for leather. Hell on hooves. Mrs Mops rushed full tilt after Velvet, for all I know, a little demented by the knot of blind terror clinging to her back.  Round Catherine went in a huge figure of eight and, blimey, she went for another eight.  We finished at the gate, dripping wet, the horses spent, snorting, high and happy. Catherine was shining. I saw something close to ecstasy written on her face.

“Oh,” she said, “Wasn’t that just terrific!” She dropped her reins, leaning down to pat Velvet’s coat, lathered with watermarks of white sweat and spray, “Well done Velvet. Well done Gill, Well done Mrs Mops. What a ride!”

This is a contemporary picture of the water meadows where we galloped. There were no kayakers then to chart the course of the river itself which was often unrecognisable from the surrounding flood.

Catherine died very young of breast cancer. When, I think of her, I remember that day. I see her, resilient and kind, generous and clever. I see Velvet’s haunches take off and fly her to the sky like a dark Pegasus. She needed her courage.



I broke my reverie by the river side where a dithering line of green-spined she-oaks stood on the bank. Tears pricked my eyes and I pulled my jacket close, my heavy heart suddenly scared of random calamities. The she-oaks were whispering, as they do all day. As I started back, their message came on the zephyr, “All’s well – carpe diem, All’s well…” 

The wind in my face brought the moist smell of spring. The odd white feather fluttered on the ground dancing with dandelion heads and Kelly-green clover that sprang bravely to invade patches of bare ground. I knitted together memories as I walked. The water meadows dried out in summer, buzzing with insects and I took the dogs there to chase hares and jump in the river.  Horses and dogs – growing up – leaving Oxford. Catherine had stayed with me in Hong Kong. We were both married in Oxford in 1972. Her wedding was two months after mine and Mike, my man, fell in a pond at her reception. Children. She had two before she was widowed. I had four and still have my man. Australia and all the in-betweens.

The she-oaks could have added, “You are one lucky bugger”, but Catherine was much more refined and she’d never speak like that.

Wildflowers on the watermeadows near Eynsham

PS: Morpeth Museum has taken over the former Courthouse built in 1862 with an eclectic display of exhibits. a whole room is dedicated to the floods of 1955. Certainly, the fields flooded and sadly caused loss of life and tremendous damage.  

The water meadows near Eynsham were bought by the Oxford Preservation Trust in 2000 to preserve the site of ridges and furrows made when the monks from Eynsham Abbey cultivated the meadows in the 15th and 16th Century. I am so glad. I expect they are much busier today. In my day, just a few walkers and the odd mad horsewomen.