Distance: 8.0km
Accessibility: Seep sections, and gravel. Some damp sand.
Landscape: Lakeside, with small beaches.
The lake at Hara Pol is the walk furthest from the House In The Woods. After the recent weirdness, I decided to get out of the area. Another local stroll might result in a paranoid search for the bizarre, rather than enjoying the route.
The morning light changed from rusty orange to clear gold by the time I arrived. Clear paint tattooed the smooth asphalt on roads where cars could overtake without having to fight for space . But near the lake everything slowed down. The woods crept to the edge of the water.
I set off down the steep, pebbled walkway around the bowl shaped shore, a few birds twittering above, the air earthy and damp.
You might remember the story where the Butter Mouse went swimming. He wore red and yellow trunks, and attempted to pilfer cheese from a lily pad that had fallen into a pond after a human picnic. He fails half a dozen times, until a duck gives him a lift on his beak, and helps our hero claim his prize.
I lost real sleep about if it mattered that the duck did not talk, and what that meant in my anthropomorphic world. How to respond to a four year old if they asked why the duck was silent, when the mouse talked non stop. But no one ever got in touch. Was worrying about this minutiae the reason the books became successful? Or did these concerns hold me back from more stories?
The path weaved like waves around the side of the lake. If the countryside was not still asleep, it was at least groggy. I looked at the water, and the silent, magic world underneath, and considered my latest flask of coffee.
The broken jangle of sobs cut through the air.
A man sat cross legged on a scruffy beach, staring at the grotty sand. Ragged breaths flapped from his mouth on repeat. The aggressive way his chest rose and fell made me worry about needles and tinfoil. But leaving someone in this state next to a murky lake was not an option.
I walked over, adjusting on the damp particles.
‘Excuse me, are you ok?’
The man turned to me as if we had been chatting all morning.
‘It's this place,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be here anymore. But how can I go home?
::The next conversation is a weird Barbara. Maybe I was right, and he was on something. But he also slotted into the local area. What is up with the people around here? I keep my door locked, but sometimes I stress about someone floating through the wood. Yet what does that even mean?
It’s like the water on the lake. Something is below the surface, but hides from view.::
