Tuesday, 10 September 2013
Inside is an imaginary place.
In spring, wandering round a lake and through a boggy forest (sometimes losing a leg underground), we came across this old stone boathouse. Growing up, I used to spend my summers on a lake island. The cottage was shabby, but it was only a place to sleep out of the rain. One year, the winter freezing and thawing of earth caused the ground to shift in just such a way that the cottage was pulled open, and a wide gap was left where the walls and the ceiling should have come together in a corner. It was then possible to lie on the dirty old couch and look up at the sky and watch the leaves of wind-tossed branches rocking and raking past.
Somehow this season of foraging for mushrooms and berries, strengthening winds, and darkening evenings makes me think on these broken apart buildings, where inside is outside and outside is inside. Night frosts have already started creeping into lonely glens, but hopefully there will still be time to camp in the mountains once or twice before the snows are on the mountain tops.