THE LAKE

It is said that the Lake belongs to Austria and to Hungary. In truth, it belongs to no-one, not even to itself. It is woven into the landscape that surrounds it, the great Central European flatlands, the Pusztá, extending into the far distance before the vision of the large cities can arrest the eye. The Lake waxes and wanes, its waters ever-changing with the season, sometimes even deciding to vanish altogether. It is not really a proper lake, either, its depths a matter of laughter for its sisters situated in the great alpine mountain ranges. And yet, it is a lake because we think of it as such, and we swim in it and sail on it, and whatever else one does in lakes. Until its waters decide to leave again, perhaps for good. My childhood is inextricably connected to the Lake. My grandparents chose to bring me here every year, not to bathe or learn to swim, but to ride horses, change the air and feel the foreign-ness of the landscape. So I bring my own children here, every year and in every season. But autumn is the best time, when the Lake returns to its sombre stillness, the clouds hang low and the grey geese slowly disappear in V formation into the South. That is when the Lake comes into its own, takes a deep breath, and decides whether to remain for yet one more year.