The towpath in August

The canal path east of town is at its best in early August, before the blackberries are picked clean. I set out at seven, when the water still holds the night's cool and the only traffic is a heron who refuses to be hurried.

The path follows the old horse route for barges. You can still see the rope grooves worn into the iron guards on the corners of the bridges, deep enough to lay a finger in. Nobody has pulled a barge with a horse here for eighty years, but the stone remembers.

Three bridges in four miles. The first is brick, rebuilt after a flood. The second is the oldest, a single low arch of dressed stone. The third is concrete and honest about it.