Time flows like the waters, rippling in the breeze, that surround this old hall on an island. Sometimes the flow is obvious, as in the little beck that enters the lake at the top end, sometimes hidden - a secret world beneath your feet - as in the stone outlet tunnel, rumoured to be the haunt of giant pike and a roost for bats. Sometimes the flow - and time - seem to have stopped altogether, as in the quiet headwaters, fringed by reed and willow, where you could imagine yourself deep in the countryside, or even in the backwaters of the River Essiquibo, which Waterton explored.

A stone cross in the wood at the top end of the lake marks his grave.