The Duomo by the lake ...

Our home for the last week has been a geodesic dome, by the shore of Lake Windermere - I had hoped for a yurt - I imagined myself, in a different life, leaping onto a tireless pony, my skin brown and leathery under the Mongolian skies - a hawk with ruthless eyes would be circling over my head - I would ride for days across an ocean of wind blown grass - 

But we were happy enough with the dome, which I soon christened the Duomo - it was sited amongst trees, not far from the shores of Lake Windermere - the camp site was at the northern end of the lake, at Low Wray - each morning, I would go to the lake shore, a few minutes walk away - I would stare, spellbound, at the mirror of the lake - low lying clouds were like smoke, drifting over the wooded fells - 

Each night, in the Duomo, I would light the wood burning stove - within moments, it would be as hot as the sun - we would drink Wainwright Ale - I would brood over Wordsworth's treatment of Coleridge - how could he write - the Poem of my Friend has indeed great defects - 

Soon, an owl would hoot in the branches above the Duomo - rain would fall, rattling upon the canvas - I would fall asleep, dreaming that I was meeting the poet, captivated by his talk and glowing sensibility -