Late one afternoon, we walked along the lake shore towards Wray Castle - the sky was a bright blue, though full of bold fleets of clouds - there were intervals of marvellous sunlight - enormous shadows moved over the wooded fells - we unzipped our cagoules -
The path led us from the camp site, away from the louche camper vans, with their sleepy eyed occupants, the pea pod tents, the billowing family tents - soon we were by the lakeside, stepping over the roots of statuesque oak trees, watching Canada Geese fly low over the water - there was a single white canoe, far out in the lake -
We had to pass through a dark wood to enter the velvet parklands of Wray Castle - we sat upon a smooth bank, overlooking the lake - long shadows were cast by the sun -
Anne paddled in the lake - she said that the water was very cold -
On our way back, near a majestic gothic boathouse, we came across a wooden landing stage - it was sited in a small inlet - barely perceptible ripples caught the waning sunlight - all was still, frozen, it seemed, in the moment -
I thought of how the idea of departure had haunted me - seeing dear faces grow smaller in the mirror -
I imagined the pleasure boat, which landed visitors here, becoming a silent barge - I might watch its shining hull, vanishing in a chilly mist - what voices would I hear then, singing to me, over the water?
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