Written over the Anatolian mountains, without sign of the close-by Black Sea.
It is pointless trying to photograph it. I tried. Perhaps I can describe it here?
This September has cooled off summer quickly. When clear, the early mornings are cold enough to need gloves on the bike. The sun warms things up quickly, but when cloudy the chill arrives immediately. Knowing what to wear is an impossibility.
Saturday mornings at the Heath are on hold while I manage George’s football team. This whirlwind of people, logistics and emotions means I barely have time to miss the Heath and the sprint to the water before the East Germans arrive with their ridiculous noise and American manliness. Not being with them is no loss, and I have Fridays.
Leaving home, the sun shines directly down my street and blinds me until I turn, then I feel the cold all the way to East Finchley on the bike. Arriving at the pond there is a hubbub of happiness from the half dozen swimmers there. I can see as I walk along the jetty why. The low sun, having just risen through the trees, is burning off the morning mist, but not too quickly. It’s shallow cantons are turning the water a blinding bronze-yellow, turning bobbing swimmers heads into small islands and illuminating the entirety. In the water the temperature drop of recent weeks means the thrill of diving in is real and instant.
I swim a slow lap in quiet wonder with no-one for company, then return to the ladder and get out energized and enthused. I’ll tell anyone who’ll listen about the wonder of the water. As everyone else feels the same we might as well be nodding and grinning to each other while mouthing no words. Some of the chaps spotted a kingfisher.
On Sunday I’m back for more, almost at the end of a hot and sunny ride from Finchley to Richmond Park, around the edges with the chugging chain-gangs and then back through town. It’s hot, maybe summer’s last lark, and word is out. There’s an outbreak of snakes in the changing area. Again the water is delicious, again the sun shimmers on the surface. I dive down a few feet to where the cool is greater, then come back up. Trees around the edges are turning from green to yellow, russet and golden. From here the way ahead is colder but no less exciting. I set some speed records on the final leg of the journey home and in the evening try to work out when I can next return. It is not long.
This is what it was like. No photo.
Tom Hall: travel, London, other things 