Halfway up the waterfall the stone is hard and it is soft, sculpted and smoothed by water into grooves like human contours and hips. There was no rain for a long time and it was dry enough on Monday, to climb up and sit in a pelvis of rock above the pool.


The pool is just left of the cascade; a stone bowl filled by a trickle of water that leaves it quietly, but today the water level is lower than the trickle-gap and the pool is completely still. Its surface swallows light from the sky and reflects it back through a calligraphy of twigs.

The pool protrudes out above where the water lands. It has a low wall of rock which separates it from the splashy noisy stream-scene, from the moss and spray and leaves and ferns and trembling wood sorrel, from the white bubbles and white noise – the water sounds like applause in which individual hearty claps and gurgles can be heard. Pebbles have collected in finger-joins of rock and made little beaches in the bank.

There is a freshness of ozone and a waterfall kiss on the skin.