The mud by the canal has been thick recently, the grass by the lake soggy, water lying under every blade tip. I have to change into my yellow wellies for my lake walk. As I turn away from the road and the layby where the car sits, a heron takes off from the reeds beside the river. I blink. The water is brown and the sky is grey and it takes off, sudden, a slow flap of grey white wings, long legs still dangling from take off. It gets up, above the brown reeds, rises quickly, turns and is gone, disappearing away into the distance where tall trees block the sky.
I follow the river, where two coots squeak as they follow each other in circles. The reeds further down the bank have clumped together, what was once soft and feathery now looking hard, lumpy, solid. I want to touch but I don’t. I cross the river and carry on through thick mud, brambles snagging when I try to skirt the deepest puddles. The birds are chattering - a blackbird, a robin, a wren - and the electricity pylons across the canal are humming.
I follow the edge of the water with its many openings in the trees, places meant for fishing but empty of fishermen. The water level is high, the bottoms of trees submerged, much of the sandy soil covered by the recent rain. I pass a tree stump with harlequin patterned bark and see, out on an island in the middle of the lake, an orange tent. In the distance, geese start an argument, their loud honking breaking the quiet.
I turn a corner and the path is gone. It slopes down here, and the lake has risen to swallow it entirely. I can see it turn the corner, still submerged. No way through. I have no choice but to turn back, even though I am 80% of the way round. On the way back I slip through the thick mud, trying to go quickly. The sun comes out and the sky brightens. I see something ahead, a black body disappearing into the undergrowth. As I draw level I turn to look and it is there still; a blackbird, head cocked, watching me.