The unkempt path beckons and I creep toward it, picking my way between the sturdy weeds. What is this place? That building at the end of the bridge? Does it belong to the ancient castle nearby? The sound of rushing water energises the air around my ears and grows louder as I venture toward the bridge.
Leaning over the lichen stained wall that curves gently toward the mysterious building, my curious eyes dart around the water container. The water appears to arise from silt laden paving slabs as it gently trickles to an arched opening in the wall. Where did it come from? Where is it going? I turn toward the other side of the bridge.
Slowly drifting away from the bridge the dark green waters here do not account for the loud rushing. My sandals crunch the dry earth and tall feathery stalks touch my skirt as I rustle past, carefully testing the path as I step toward the building.
A long-unattended weir placed near the door of the building is the culprit of that high pressure sound; above it rests a rusting wheel. And written above the painted wooden door is the word “PUMPHOUSE”.
Red paint does not peel from the door and the shiny padlock does not yield. I step back and make for the side of the building; as I reach the open gate my body stops. I spy two holes, perfectly round, in the floor. What lies beneath? Rushing water, not a soul in sight, I turn, spooked, and see a sign on the gate: “NO ENTRY”. With relief, I happily obey the rule and turn back the way I came.
What do you think?