I remember to this day how as a tourist in the Tver region I stood in some awe looking at a tiny stream pouring out of a cold lump of rock not quite able to believe that the mighty river Volga could have such a humble source.

The stream was quite small. In the pure clear water one could easily make out a small shoal of fish playfully chasing each other. All the tourists present were easily able to step across from one side to the other. With water bottles, flasks and any other vessel to hand we each collected a sample of this "holy water", the most valuable souvenir available for miles around and the type of memento which can't be bought for love nor money anywhere else in the world. We were a little anxious that we might overdo it and empty the stream, thus causing the river to die before it had even become big enough to merit a name.

The stream had none of the traditional qualities such as strength and power which Russians associate with the Volga from childhood. At this stage of its journey the great mother Volga more than anything else resembles a playful young girl who at one moment when troubled might hide in the shade of the overhanging branches of the forest and then the next come running forth to meet the brightly shining sun, smiling from the very depths of its being.

Many kilometres further down its course the river becomes more experienced and thoughtful. The river seems to take on an air of wise tranquillity. And it is at this point that the first sentinels of human life appear on its banks: a boat tied by its dark ropes to a piece of brushweed or a stack of recently cut hay standing like an island in a field. Finally the first little village swings into view made up of no more than a dozen or so modest houses.

A further one hundred or so kilometres downstream a buoy winks at you like an eerie red eye. A small motor boat with its stuttering diesel engine carries the milk to market. On its deck you can hear the crew loudly arguing about how to finish the day's business at the market quickly and successfully so that they might return home before dark.

And finally the first jetty appears. On an old barge, which has turned grey with time, stands a green wheel house equipped with a little bell. From its sides there hang worn out old tyres to prevent anyone from scraping its sides. The fisherman proffer their fragrant yet slightly faded bream to passers by.

This is the Volga. Now you can hear the powerful voice of this mighty river. Out loud I whisper the names of the villages, towns and tributaries both large and small which flow towards us as we carry on downstream.

All rivers are divided. Each river has a "left bank" and a "right bank". Perhaps this is why so many rivers have been chosen by governments to act as the border between two countries! This bank is ours that one over there is theirs.

The Volga is one of the most peaceful rivers. Like a kind and caring mother she gathers to her shores the people of all nations: Russians, Chuvash, Mari, Tatars and Kalmyks.

The Russians call the Volga "Russia's main street". The Tatars simply call it the Idyel. The Mari call it the Yul and the Chuvash the Adyel. Although these people have all given this river different names it is interesting to note that these names all have one thing in common: an air of tenderness, love and respect for this great river. This is because those of us who have lived on the banks of the Idyel-Volga cannot imagine life without this river. In much the same way that the Egyptians could not imagine life without the Nile, the Indians without the Ganges and the Bulgarians, Yugoslavs and Romanians without the Danube.

The Volga is four thousand kilometres long and has seven thousand rivers flowing into it. It gives life to hundreds of thousands of towns and villages and over half of Russia's population. Sixty per cent of Russia's industry lies on the banks of the Volga. The steamer catches up with the gentle, lazy waves of the river and moors next to a noisy jetty. It's at moments like these that one recalls the names of these cities like old childhood friends. Such fondly remembered places as Tver, Yaroslavl and Nizhny Novgorod. How many times have I heard and read about them, but now thanks to the Volga I am now seeing and getting to know them myself for the very first time.

In Nizhny Novgorod we were lucky. It was here that we changed ship and found ourselves on the "Meteor". Its captain was Mikhail Devyatayev, the most renowned skipper on the Volga and our fellow countryman. He had long ago been registered in the port of Kazan .

Devyatayev didn't once mention his exploits although he had been a famous pilot during the Second World War. However after the war he swapped the controls of his fighter plane for the wheel of the "Meteor".

The road from Novgorod to Kazan is not a short one. You have to first pass through Gorkovskaya Oblast, (which recently reverted to its original name Nizhny Novgorod), Chuvashiya, Mari El and finally Tatarstan.

During the trip the Volga was both peaceful and stormy. When it was the former the waves would tenderly caress the sides of the ship but when it was the latter it felt as if the boat was capable of taking off on its winged keels leaping from one wave to the next.

In his blue sailor's jacket and white cap and with a gold star on his chest Mikhail Petrovich calmly stands on the captain's bridge contentedly whispering to himself: "we're flying!"

And immediately everything becomes calm and well. In some places the river is quite calm. The ship hardly moves at all, and only then when the helmsman has to turn the boat out of the way of a raft or a small tug pulling its unfeasibly heavy burden of two enormous barges. It's at moments like these that one is free to talk and Devyatayev begins to recount his many stories about himself, the river and his homeland.

He himself is legendary figure on the Volga. Having been through hell and back during the war, he is the only person in the world who escaped a prisoner of war camp in an enemy aircraft not only saving himself but many of his comrades.

Mikhail Petrovich is by nature a modest and tight lipped man merely saying that it was his duty to fight for himself and for his country.

This characteristic is also borne out of the Volga. This strong and powerful river moulds the characters of those born on its banks. When you consider the character of my people: hard working, honourable, proud of their homeland, strong spirited and brave hearted this concept begins to make sense. It's no coincidence that that great writer Gorky claimed that although he had been born in Nizhny Novgorod he felt his soul had been born in Kazan. One calls to mind Gorky's description of the Tatar people during the celebrations held to mark the tenth anniversary of the Republic of Tatarstan. "I have known about the Tatar people from childhood. They are sober, decent, hard working and capable of combining a gentleness of spirit with the doggedness of purpose to achieve their goal whatever it may be."