In this languid July heat some friends and I retreated to the leafy depths of Stapleton Glen and took a late afternoon stroll up the banks of the Frome, through Snuff Mills. It was idyllic, with only the sound of rustling trees, mallards, and the occasional flapping of heron wings. Insects filled the sun-shafted air, and drenched dogs shook themselves all around us. It's hard to think of this as the same water that, just a couple of miles further downstream, passes under the Centre and out past the Watershed, where inebriated Emo's throw-up into it.
But see for yourself:
But see for yourself:
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