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Winter is on its way.
I can feel it creeping through the folds of my scarf, and when I breathe in, the air pooling into my lungs is sharp and cool, bringing with it a clarity and freshness. I feel more awake, more alert, and I allow myself to inhale deeply. There is a faint scent of pine, and something else that I can’t distinguish. Perhaps it is coming from the plants that I know are there, but cannot see, behind the high stone walls, or perhaps it is the lake that I can smell, which is just now coming into view below me.
It is silent, as it always is at this early hour, and I wonder if the birds have even woken yet. When I come down here in the afternoons, they’re always busy rustling away in the surrounding trees, doing whatever vital job it is that they always seem to be in the midst of completing. It would be nice to be a bird, I think fleetingly. To have the freedom to take off whenever you desired, and soar through the endless blue sky above the water as if you were weightless. Then again, I remind myself, the birds aren’t the only things that have escaped.
The gradual downward slope of the stony path ends abruptly in front of me, and ahead sits a narrow strip of beach. Beyond that, the lake sits calm as glass, with barely a ripple interrupting its deep blue canvas. I feel better already.
I stand for a while gazing out towards the horizon, and then my eyes trail west, to where the distant mountaintops seem to shimmer in the morning light, and I take another breath. Yes, winter is definitely on its way. Soon I will wake to find blankets of frost thrown over the ground, and red berries will burst out amongst the clumps of holly that decorate the outer walls of the hotel. It will be cold and stark, but the sun will still shine. Even when the snow comes, it will be baked into a glistening meringue, and the clouds will be permitted only for a short time each day – perhaps not at all. Such is the desire of good old Mother Nature here in Lake Como, and I would not want it any other way. The beauty here feels like a tonic, the relentless sun like a beaming clown, chasing away sad thoughts, and the rich colours of the contrasting landscape a palette that soothes and calms me.
And this is the place where it all comes together. This beach, this view, this place. My place.
I bring my hands up to rub some warmth into my upper arms, and lift my shoulders to keep the chill from my throat. My scarf is a helpful barrier, but the thin cotton material is no real match for the cold, and I pull it tighter in a fruitless attempt to cover up more skin. Turning left, I make my way along the narrow corridor of shingle, my hand on the high wall to steady myself, and follow it along until I reach the corner. There’s a wide gap where the lake floods in through an underground passage, and then a wider stretch of beach beyond. An abandoned rowing boat sits idle on the shore, and in that moment, I have a sudden urge to reach it, to run my hand across its coarse, rotting surface and watch the paint disintegrate beneath my fingers – but I hesitate. I will have to jump, and from this position on the corner there is no room for a run‑up. And what if I make it across, but then have no way back? It’s too cold to paddle back through the water, and anyway, my skinny jeans are far too tight to roll up.