Narrator (8:05)

There is a charming place in England, just outside the boundaries of South West London. It's a county called Surrey, and it is green and leafy, full of gently sloping hills and wide open spaces. The River Thames meanders through Surrey. You might know it as the great river that runs through London. Here in Surrey, it is wide and gentle, looping through the countryside. Branching off the Thames are its many tributaries. They are smaller, narrower rivers that twist and turn, weaving through the landscape like the countless roots of a tree. Some pass by fields and farmland, while others cut through market towns. Other rivers glide lazily through the untouched countryside and around the backs of old stately homes or tiny stone cottages. One of these rivers is in a particularly peaceful spot. Here the flow of water is no more than 15 metres wide. On one side is a woodland dotted with the slender trunks of young birch trees. Their bark is powdery white and smooth, striped here and there with smatters of black. The tree's canopy is sparse but vibrant, making the light appear dappled when it shines through the branches. Beyond the woodland are wheat fields, which can be glimpsed through the gaps in the trees. In the morning, the trees are filled with birdsong, and in the evening you can hear the hoot of a lone owl and the sound of swaying leaves. On the other side, tall reeds rise out of the mud. Beyond them, is a grassy bank that sits high and rounded like a fluffy pillow. As the river bends around it, a magnificent weeping willow trails its leaves into the water. Just like a mermaid might trail her hair into the ocean. It emanates a strange sense of beauty and tranquility. Behind the willow, across a smooth carpeted lawn is an old red brick house with a thatched roof that must have been there for hundreds of years. In autumn and winter the chimney is crowned with a permanent wisp of wood smoke. The scent lingers on the breeze. In spring, the bricks are adorned with pale purple flowers that blossom from the clematis which climbs up the walls. Somewhere in the distant fields, newborn lambs frolic. And there is another place away from the house and the woodland. It is nestled in the edge of the riverbank just a few feet into the reeds. It is the home of a fine looking mallard duck called Henry. Henry is very well groomed. His tail and lower body are covered with smooth grey toned feathers. His chest feathers are brown and soft and when they catch the light they come alive with a purple sheen. He has a band of white feathers around his throat while his head is covered in emerald feathers that glint in the light like a particularly sumptuous piece of green velvet. Henry's home is a neat little nest made of twigs which he has expertly woven into a basket like shape perfect for his body. Although many mallards are migratory ducks, Henry is a resident duck, which means he lives on the river all year round. He happily watches the seasons pass and feels the river change with the year's events. In the depths of winter, when everything is cold and quiet, Henry sits with his feathers fluffed up and observes the delicate patterns of frozen leaves. His breath blossoms in front of him like a fine cloud. He hears the quiet whisper of the wind and feels the icy chill of the river water which runs fast and clear. When the snow turns to rain and the ice melts quickly in the morning, Henry knows spring is coming. Sure enough, he watches bluebells and daffodils force their way up through the mossy ground to flower in a riot of color. The swallows arrive in the sky and the trees erupt with tiny pea green buds. Steadily the spring flowers will go. The leaves of the trees will mature and darken from bright green into emerald shades. The sun will shine longer and longer and the days become drier and warmer until they melt into Henry's favorite season. Summer. Today, on this summer's evening, the river is flowing merrily and the air is thick with the lingering warmth of the sun. There is a slight scent of hay in the breeze, sweet and earthy at the same time. The river seems fresh and clean in comparison, with a scent of strong enough to taste. Somewhere in the garden of the old brick house, people are talking and laughing from the river. Their voices sound muffled. Every now and then, the clink of glasses and tinkle of cutlery ring out. Perhaps they're enjoying a barbecue or picnic. The daylight is beginning to turn golden. Although the sun will not set until late into the evening, the time has come for it to sink low and cast a special sense of magic over the land. Everything seems to glow with a burnished shine. Henry is waddling on the riverbank. The summer grass is dry and springy under his webbed feet. The ground is powdery and slightly cracked from the many days of heat giving off a toasty warmth. Time is ticking. Henry makes his way purposefully over the ground and towards the cool river. He stops at the river's edge and dips his fantastically yellow coloured bill into the water to drink. Ripples fan out from where he drinks, undulating over the still part of the surface before they merge into the gently flowing river. Henry ruffles his feathers and stretches his wings out in preparation. Then, when he is quite sure he is ready, he launches into the water with a soft splash. On the water, Henry is extremely elegant. He barely needs to paddle with his feet. His body is so light and streamlined that he only needs to kick out once or twice. Otherwise, he simply trusts the current to carry him. The shallow water is slow and perfectly clear, so the grey and brown pebbles that form the riverbed are easily visible. Henry can see long ribbons of moss, like water weeds clinging to the larger rocks. They all flow in the same direction, rippling and fluttering together. Small silver fish float above the riverbed, riding an undercurrent. They wiggle but do not move anywhere, content to hang suspended in their watery world. Henry observes them with curiosity as he continues to drift down the river. Here and there he glimpses bigger fish. Some are fat and rounded, their scales a mixture of muddy brown and green. Other fish are small and almost translucent in color. They can only be identified when a beam of sunlight hits their smooth bodies to illuminate a thin strip of gold scales. Henry reaches the leaves of the weeping willow still trailing into the river. He glides underneath the canopy and looks up. The sunlight glints through the tapered leaves. Then his attention is caught by a fluttering, darting movement. A pair of dragonflies have flitted under the willow. Their blue bodies glitter in the chinks of light that break through the leaves. Henry watches the dragonflies until they leave the shade of the tree and venture back out into the open air. Then he glides towards the tree roots, which rise out of the water like great gnarled fingers. He stops close to them and looks down. Nestled on the bottom of the riverbed are the lush green weeds he loves eating. With a swift, bouncing movement, Henry dives his head under the water to reach the weeds. The sounds of the outside immediately disappear. Silence presses in. Everything feels still and so peaceful. The water is cool and refreshing. You can feel the current flowing over his head and chest. Henry reaches for the weeds with his bill. He expertly tugs at the plants, breaking off pieces of the delicious weed. Then he bobs up to the surface. Droplets of water roll off his body like transparent pearls. His feathers are completely waterproof. Henry snaps up the river weed happily. It has a slightly salty taste. Then he dives down again to harvest more. When he is full, Henry allows himself to float while preening his feathers. The sun is now low enough to catch the surface of the river. The rays ripple and dance with the water's movement, casting shimmering dots of light over Henry. A pair of pure white butterflies flutter through the air. They chase each other, twirling and circling in an unmistakable act of romance. Meanwhile, Henry has finished cleaning himself. His feathers lie smooth and lustrous over his body, and he has a new, confident glint in his eye. He turns his head towards the sky, assessing the lateness of the day. One thing is certain. It is time to move on. He begins to paddle again, propelling himself out from under the willow. The evening air is still warm. Henry floats down the river, following its graceful bends and curves. He passes through wheat fields and fields of cows. Then meadows full of grass and tiny white flowers where sheep are grazing serenely. Henry sees people out for evening walks. Couples, families and people walking with their dogs. All the while, insects buzz lazily over the water and the river babbles and gurgles. Slowly, the landscape changes. Young trees and thickets of small bushes begin to appear. The river makes frequent bends and the riverbed becomes finer and sandier. Tiny birds twitter, singing into the sky as it changes from blue to a musky lavender color. Finally, the river turns into a quiet, secluded patch of trees and rocks to one side. It fans out into a small, sandy beach where people often come to swim and enjoy a picnic. But today it is perfectly empty. Just what Henry hoped for. He raises his head to look at the sky. The coming sunset is filling the air with a heavy, sleepy quality. Henry stops swimming and breathes in the scent of warm grass, wildflowers. In the distance, he can hear the reedy sound of frogs croaking and crickets rubbing their legs together. But he keeps his eyes fixed on the beach. Then another mallard duck arrives. She is the same size as Henry, but covered in mottled brown feathers. Her bill is black and orange and she has a healthy, glowing look. She stands on the beach as if she has been waiting for him. Henry ruffles his feathers, showing the beautiful streaks of blue and purple in his wings. The female duck slips into the water and glides to Henry. They gently cock their heads from side to side, greeting each other respectfully. It's clear that they have met many times before. Then they begin to dance, moving this way and that in perfect symmetry. The sun is starting to slip towards the horizon, giving an even more hazy quality to the scene. Henry and the female duck glide over the smooth water. They circle each other, still dancing and swimming with amazing precision and mesmerizing grace. Gradually, as the sun begins to set, the ducks stop their dance and make their way to the beach. The fine sand crunches underneath their webbed feet and they shake the water off their bodies, fluffing up their feathers in the process. The ducks make their way up the beach. The air is becoming steadily cooler as night chases away the warmth of the long summer day. The sand from the beach begins to merge into the land and small tufts of grass poke through, tickling the duck's feet. Henry leads the female duck towards a small tree with low hanging branches. At the base of the tree is a small, protected and private spot of earth. It's the perfect place for two ducks to sit together. The ground is soft and dry. The ducks settle down together and look out ahead of them. From this spot, they have a beautiful view. The river lies ahead of them like a great silvery length of cloth. Beyond it is the dense woodland and to the side they can glimpse the horizon. The sun has almost disappeared. The sky is shot with bursts of pink and purple light that catch the underside of small fluffy clouds. The first glimpse of stars has arrived somewhere in the indigo part of the sky. They look like fireflies floating in the dark. The sound of the river slowly following its course fills the air. Henry can smell its fresh mineral scent. The frogs are still croaking, the grasshoppers chirping and the birds twittering. Henry cuddles up closer to the female duck. Her soft, warm body leans into his slowly. An irresistible sense of sleepiness. Washes over the ducks. Their wings soften and their eyes start to close. Before they know it, they slip into a deep, relaxing sleep. But they will dream of river fish and the wind in the willow leaves of their beautiful home.