Each morning as I make my way to coffee (kavé) I walk along a low stream that meanders its way through Eger between high stone walls. About fifteen feet across, and maybe a foot deep, it isn't exactly the Danube, but still it's water and it adds a bit of romanticism to this gothic town. As the stream is fed by rain run-off and snow melt, I can imagine it quite puny during dry spells, rasping over rocks and parched bed. Today however, with the recent spike in temperatures, it is quite robust (as streams go), gurgling and burbling, flowing, so much so that a pair of mallards gave themselves up to it: After paddling in place against the current when their aim was to make it upstream, they must have asked each other "What sense is this?" (in Hungarian, of course), about faced, and happily sailed away.
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