The lake is green, full for the recent rain. It reflects the sun in a green, waving, warm light. I'm siting on the rocky beach throwing little stones, trying to make them jump over the green surface: you need the right inclination and the right speed. It seems impossible but it works.
I'm siting here and taking a picture of the lake and half of my face to send my busy love where ever he is – 'national championships' being quite vague – with a message saying: "Wonder if I'll ever can come here with you, once". But there is no signal here and my message can't go. I'll try again from home and close my eyes in the delicate summer light.
It's the first decent day after a week of cold and rain. I can see my steps on the muddy ground walking back through the forest. Silence and the noise of the wind making clash the tops of the trees. Summer seems short this year. No Tour de France, a long stay here in the country while my son is racing, few days by the sea, a bike trip from Passau to Wien, a week in Ritten. And all that time without him? In August we should meet. He goes to the Tour. And I have got a little she cat, Vera, to cuddle and kiss.
I have got many beautiful races to watch, a book to write – about JP Sartre and some revealing methaphores - a few messages to wait and hopefully read before to sleep and when I wake up. Love messages in the early morning are my favourites. I have been more in love than that but never so serene. It's complicated. It's worth of it.