Back to the swans this morning after getting through the breakfast rush. Less tourists this morning.
There is a fly fisherman at one end of the lake, so I move there to spectate this contemplative art form. I’m sure it is an art form. It certainly is mesmerising how swinging that fly rod back and forth can land that little fake lure with its hook so far out.
Repeat a few times, and of you are lucky a fish attaches itself to the hook. He was and it did. A picture is taken by him, many by me, the fish is released, and life goes on.
As do we. We head to a geothermal area with active vents gushing forth steam and sulphurous fumes. To think that volcanic action produced the mountains and lakes in this area. And will probably destroy it at some time in the unforeseen future.
