The path to Tarn Hows was a stairway of dark glistening stones, overlooking an icy torrent - our ears were filled with the ceaseless noise of water coursing over slabs of rock - the beck plunged downwards, over a series of waterfalls - foaming pools were half hidden by lichened oaks - ferns dripped rainwater - spider webs were sinister lace - there were banks of small, shapely, purple flowers -
A fallen tree bridged the ravine - I thought of Coleridge's words, when he saw such a tree, whilst climbing up Scale Force - Oh God! - to think of a poor Wretch hanging with one arm from it -
The air was mild and damp - I brushed my finger tips over silky pelts of moss - I looked up at the clearing sky - I no longer felt the woods to be sinister, as I had, down in the car park - I'd imagined the Wendigo, stalking through the trees -
I looked down at the shining turbulent water - perhaps there was a genius loci here - but I knew the spirit could be appeased or even loved - soon a sinuous shape might emerge from the spray -
Above lay the tarn - we passed through a gate - still water reflected the silent trees and sky - there were clusters of lily pads near the shore - I wondered if other walkers had sensed the strangeness of the place -
A wind blown pine lay across the path - from a distance, it appeared decorated with shining metal scales - when we got closer, we saw that it was studded with coins, mostly English, but from all nations -
These were votive offerings, I thought - but what prayers had been said, or vows made, here, beside the mysterious water? -
Anne straightened up, after hammering in her coin with a stone - you mustn't say - if you do, the wish won't work -
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