The steam gondola ...

I have always been fascinated by steam engines - whenever I see a traction engine at a Steam Fair, I feel that I am in the presence of a brave beast - I can smell its oil, sense the living flames in the fire box - the men in their pungent overalls are heroic beings -

I am sure that I can remember travelling to London by steam train - I was very young, an innocent boy - I was wearing a little coat - I can still see, as though through frosted glass, the stern shapes of locomotives - smoke is billowing over long platforms - but these memories may be false ones, wistfully imagined -

But in Lake Coniston, there was a steam gondola, moving swiftly and smoothly over the slate grey water - she was approaching the shore - a pilot jack flew over her stern - a gentle breeze ruffled the surface of the lake -

As soon as we saw her sleek shape, with the slender blue funnel, we were beguiled - we had to board her -

The marineros spoke of the vessel with passion and affection - the gleaming engine was pristine - there was no vibration, no shuddering hull, no reek of diesel - we slid away from the pier, picking up speed, racing up the lake, as though in a dream -

Inside the cabin, there were gilt pillars and soft red couches to loll upon - brass fittings shone - we saw the noble fells, their lower slopes covered with dark trees - we passed the spot where Campbell had perished - I remembered seeing the photographs - there was no sign, now, of that monstrous flower of spray -

I caught a glimpse of Ruskin's house - I had a worn copy, somewhere, of Stones of Venice - I wondered, once again, about his life -

The gondola approached the pier once more - there was the Bluebird Cafe - soon we would be eating coffee cake - I stopped thinking sad thoughts -