A river runs through the town below my house. Back in the 1970s, huge numbers of salmon would run upstream, and the water would lead them up between the narrow streets. It must have been strange for these fish, which had grown fat and limber in the impossible depths of the North Atlantic off the coast of Greenland. They would not only have had to contend with a shift from saltwater to fresh, but also a shift from the deep, silent sea to a shallow rumble of rocks and bridges, all lit up with electric lights.
During periods of low water, these salmon were held in a pool below the pub. It became a game for patrons to pour outdoors on summer evenings
