Every year, on the 8th of April, at 6:30 in the evening, he boards the boat at the little pier, at the South bank of the lake, heading North.
It is a challenge for him to manage to sail along the route before the night falls.
This is the best time of the day, except for very early in the morning, to enjoy the rows of mountains hiding one behind the other like veils of increased transparency.
He has stored his memories deep in the water and they float on the top one by one, while the stem tears the fragile crystal waters. Paddling through them is his redemption.
“Stop, here we are! Now, I can see the top of the mountain! Look at this beauty, my father was taking me there when I was a little kid!”, she had told him with a face sparkling from happiness under the sun, the last time.
It was her favourite spot. It was the moment with her he had chosen to remember.
24 years gone.
And every year, on the 8th of April, at 7:45 in the evening, he gets off the boat at the little pier, at the South bank of the lake, heading back to the city.
* Mynd taken at Lake District, England, April, 2016 *