Leaving Lake Como

Being from Toronto, a very flat place, I am always excited by the sight of mountains. For whatever reason they cast the same spell over me every time, and I am rendered quite speechless before them.

Here on Lake Como, the mountain view changes from moment to moment, delighting me afresh every time I turn around. In Menaggio, where we have been staying, if you stand in one spot and look out to left you would see the craggy rock face of a mountain sternly looking out over the lake like an ancient, though slightly grumpy, guardian. Turn 180 degrees and you are gazing down a long channel of water bordered by two long chains of moss green mountains gently folding into one another.

There is a fluidity to the rolling trees and grasses, almost as if it were batter poured on top of a hard rock foundation that hasn't quite set yet. Indeed, there is a part of me that wants to take a bite out of it, or, at least, run my tongue across the soft moss-like surface. It reminds me vaguely of a story I had to read many times this summer to young Daniel Barr about a sheep who wishes to grow bigger, and ends up eating the whole world. There are pictures of him taking huge bites out of trees and hilltops.

I envy him.