I have tried many times to describe what I love about Lake Como in northern Italy. Every time I go, any time of the year, I am defeated by the desire to state the obvious: it’s beautiful; or I hesitate at the precipice of cliches about mountains and lakes, Italian villages and wine. Today, as we drove to Menaggio, I finally realised what the beauty really is.
It begins on the lakeshore, in ripples in golden waves on the shoreline sprinkled with golden rocks. I am always drawn to the water’s edge like some Arthurian knight hearing the Lady of the Water talk in lapping tongues, making promises of healing, cleansing, purity. There are only a few metres of this golden promise before the colours descend into turquoise depths. Fish flit around the edge, some big and unhurried. Some days the bountiful lake hazes with afternoon mist. The mountains become rumours, the far shore a blur and the lake sings of memories of childhood: playing in moorland rivers or in rock pools on the Devon coast of England. Ancient glacial water gulps down tiny droplets of time. Waves giggle over rocks and the sadness sinks deep. Most days the view across the lake is of orange and cream roofed villages clustered on tiny lips of land. The famous isthmus of Bellagio dressed in lace strips. The steep pearl topped mountains receding into dreams. The whole combination is something beyond art, bigger than intention. I raise a glass of wine and breathe deeply, wondering what the mountains think of us. Those glacier-scraped mountains just ignore me with their stoney frowns. I am nearly nothing to them, not noticeable, an organic moment of punctuation in time’s long sentence. They are more beautiful for their eroded indifference. I’m unconcerned that the prayers go unnoticed. The stones and lake reflect me. But in that reflection there is a lesson of exquisite beauty. We are alive and they are not. Long after I am gone and they will continue to not notice, but for a moment, your moment, we are more than all the stone in that magnificent mountain. What we have is more precious.
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AuthorA poetic-essay style blog with a limit of 365 words. 365 like the days of the year - my name being one of those days! Archives
March 2020
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