There is great beauty around a tidal river. I grew up with one and getting to know the hours of its high and low tides gives one a knowledge of the phases of the moon. Gives one an appreciation of how boats rise and fall and tip gently when they hit the bottom of the muddy river bed. Of the thinking behind the endless tyres along the man made sides to the river and how buoys work. And the architecture of bridges below the water line which is so often hidden.
The practicalities of river life. How to clean a boat, what clothes to wear, the different kinds of boats from rowing boats to fishing vessels and the different kinds of sailors. The smell, the dirtiness, the wistfulness of the sea as she stretches a finger along an inlet, bathes rocks in passing and circles reed beds inland.
The ducks and swans that glide along with the people. The dampness that pervades all the buildings close to the riverside. The stories of sailors and buildings, held in the collective memory. And of course the drinking. The river has her own traditions and the people who ebb and flow along with her are a particular kind of people. Imbued with the moon. With a roughness and a strength and a predictability which mirrors their life-blood.
Not a bad place to grow up.