Where The Rivers Meet

The market was a frightening place for a little ‘un, full of legs and stalls and raucous calls. He’d shimmy his way through each Saturday morning, buy a Duck Loaf cooked to the edge of burnt, and then escape, down to the station at Tiviot Dale. A grand place for a small town. He’d head for the yellow rails, lean in so he could see all the way down to where the rivers met. That bit’s the Goyt, he’d tell himself; that bit the Tame; and here, where they join, is the Mersey. Except they all looked the same, the water hurling itself onwards like nothing else mattered.

Inspired by a conversation with Walter Brett, councillor for Reddish South


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