The smell of water on Good Friday

I ambled (the pace my sore back is comfortable with) to the lake, a two-minute trip down a small path surrounded by walls of large moss laden grey squares of stone. In one crevice, four violets and their green tongue-shaped leaves were almost at eye level.

Violets have been my favourite flower since I was a child. The hill outside our backyard would be covered with them. My mother and I picked bouquets almost a foot across and put them in our pewter pitcher. Even at four and five I wanted to absorb the colour combination into my soul.

The lake glimmered blue-grey in the muted sun, a Manet day, not a VanGogh day. The Alps were hidden in mist. The lake has a certain smell, a clean smell that words don’t describe. The closest I can think of is the smell of sheets that have been sun-dried. I cannot find the words to describe the smell of mud in New England as the winter frost lets go of the earth.

Yesterday the lake had been dotted with white caps and was Coke bottle green. I learned that the Rhone runs through the lake and during the Bise the water gets churned up and changes colour. The person who told me that said when you fly over the lake you can see the Rhone passing through.

Ducks swam in the water so clear that I could see the ridges in their webbed feet. At certain angles the heads of the male mallards looked deep purple instead of luminescent green.

A few boats bobbed off shore. On one sailboat, the masts nude, a family ate a picnic. The cries of their baby floated across the water.

I found a place to sit and a small white un-coiffured poodle, Maisie, checked me out, found me uninteresting and moved on.

On a normal Friday, I would have been alone, but this is a four-day weekend and families were strolling up and down.

I found a perch and sat and watched at peace with myself and the world as I smelled the water.