Eavestone Lake lies quietly at the bottom of a hidden valley. A lost world where majestic birds of prey circle the tree tops, while swans and geese glide on the surface of the lake, their calls echoing off the surrounding crags.
Perhaps, when the woodlands were manicured and the paths were as keenly tended as the minds that walked them, the waters would have been clear and bright alive with the fish which helped feed the monastery and gently reflecting the holy contemplations in the eyes of those that peacefully beheld it.
Sound is dampened, moisture fills the air, and the woodland detritus from years of neglect smother the ancient medieval paths which encircle the lake. Mushrooms cling to dead wood and lichens mottle the crags which tower silently on the periphery of vision barely visible through the trees which appear contorted and twisted by the damp.
As I look across the lake, I am suddenly stilled and a coldness prickles my skin. A dark pathway leads out from a clearing in the woodland down to an old jetty at the waters edge. It is encircled by birch, their fine autumn leaves bright in contrast to the silent darkness of the calm waters of the lake.
A sense of trespass becomes palpable. In this lonely forgotten valley, secrets have become entangled amongst the woodland and the lake, and I feel no longer welcome.