Mist hangs above the surface of water. The crunch of towpath gravel is deadened in the pools of shade where the sweet-smelling catkins of the chestnut trees are soft under my feet. Plush yellow fingers of flowers are drifted into fluffy mounds, like the fringe of chenille on a grandmother’s curtains - and I recall from nowhere that the French word chenille is a caterpillar.
Fish rise to catch the early morning flies in their thick lips, then plop back lazily into the water. I see no one, hear nothing except the song of birds, the rustle of leaves, the splash of the carp and the rhythm of my walk. I am quietly amongst my thoughts. The magnificent grey granite tower of Evran church is behind me now. The view of Treverien against a lightly clouded sky, reflected in the still surface is a perfect painting.
I turn. “Look!” I marvel. But there is nobody here to tell.
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