I grew up by the Trnava stream in Čakovec. I remember its changes. It knew how to rise and threaten to carry away the wooden bridge. When it was calm, it was our landscape of play and curiosity. The colour of the water fascinated me. Sometimes it was red from slaughterhouse waste, so it looked like a bloody river to us. They told us there were leeches in it, so we didn’t dare to swim, although braver children did. Meadows along the Trnava were full of scents. The grass was tall, and bees and butterflies were all around us. Today that is gone. Houses and asphalt have replaced the meadows, and I feel nostalgia for those scenes.