I sat by the Lansrode lake. Long enough so that a Great Tit went back to pecking amongst the leaves and branches of an overhanging oak, scarcely an arm's length away.
Radial waves spread out from where fish, perhaps carp, had briefly surfaced, perhaps to snatch an insect from above. A coot chased a rival, both part-running, part-flying across the water.
There is age to this place, reflected in the almost heaviness of the air as much as the trees in the water.
Yesterday was St. John of Beverley’s feast day, so I thought to be near water.