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In Greece, near Athens, exists a wild and enchanting place. Following the route of the old Phaleros that skirts the sea beyond Glyphada and Voula, one arrives at a point where several roads meet and end. Straight ahead, to the north, a high wall formed by vertical cliffs of reddish hues encircles a glen in whose bottom sleeps a blue and green lake of small size. No fish enlivens its depths, only the birds touch its surface when they try to catch insects and then disappear with a cry into the holes of the cliffs. Around the lake which the sun gilds only a few hours each day, grows thorny underwood of laburnum, mastic, citrus and arbute. From here spring the mineral waters of Vouliagmeni which means in Greek “Swallowed up.” According to tradition when the earth broke down here centuries ago, these waters had been springing forth. In the summer many Athenians come to cure their rheumatism or eczema in long rows of bathing tubs of marble which have been covered by the wild growth. Others prefer to frolic in the beautiful blue-green lake.
But in the winter the mirror of sapphire and emerald of the enchanted lake remains ordinarily deserted by men in spite of the constant temperature of 23 degree Celsius of the waters welling up from the rocks. I came alone to read or write in good weather at its banks, and at times to dive into it.
Sometimes, however, appears a peasant, huntsman or shepherd or eventually a monk. Then I inquire about this place which I love and of whose history and legend he ought to know more than I do.
In this way I could gather several stories which were believed by the local population. The neighboring cafetier who kept a little booth at the near seashore was the first to inform me. “If you swim in this lake” he said, “take good care not to get over