Jetty

Working in a hotel at Windermere for a few days, I walked down to the lake
after work. There was a rocky path down under trees alongside a tumbling
stream. It came out by a house at a small jetty near the north end of the lake. I
followed the lake south.

The lake is so still. The whole area so quiet. Wooded hillsides are all you can
see above the lake. Occasionally during the day a pleasure boat takes people up
and down. A speedboat passes, thrashing the bank with wash.

I saw only a few people - one or two fishing, some walking dogs. A group of
young people all together near one of the jetties, talking excitedly - a party in
the open air. I passed unnoticed.

When I returned they had gone. I walked out on one of the long wooden jetties
near where they had been. It was like walking out into the lake.

I drank in the silence. I stared into the water as it played its never-resting
games with light and dark - silver, dull metal grey and slick blackness - flickering
flitting dashes and scuffs, too fast and undefinable for the mind to capture.

When I turned back a bat was flying round with its quivering flight. There was a
kind of clearing in the tree canopy - an aerial arena over the lake shore. Here it
circled silently.

The dusk was sinking into darkness.