A river book has many sources. It begins in clouds blown in from far out on the ocean, deposited on mountain top as snow, in sheets of rain on bleak moors, rises up from deep underground caverns. Twists of circumstance, of fate direct its journey. Such vagaries shape its words reflecting the creatures, the plants, the people who live and die in it, on it, by it.
From winter mountain burn to loch to Highland torrent, meandering through the Lowlands to summertime on Broughty Ferry beach; the Tay is a river of shieling, croft, burgh, city and suburbs, its glacial history cutting a path from Ice Age to Stone Age, flowing into the modern age.
“The river is engineered by clouds, geology, glaciers, Stevensons, salmon: these words channelled by publisher, churned through the editorial mill wheel, filtered by the publishing team until- purchased in a leap of faith (hopefully in a bookshop)- dipped into by you, the reader.”
Robin A Crawford 