The story-teller’s picture. ‘What do you think, Malone? Is this it?’ Lord Roxton gazed down at the emerald green lake, eyes wide with amazement. His companion nodded slowly. He had no doubt. This was it – the end of their long, arduous journey. The reason they’d risked death so many times. At last they had reached their destination.
The picture-taker’s story. The story above isn’t mine, but Conan Doyle’s, published in 1912. I never read the book, but I saw the film as a boy and I was transfixed. Man-eating plants, giant spiders, hostile tribes. The Lost World had it all. In fact, Lake Dziani, in a voclanic crater on Petite Terre, Mayottte, is easier to reach – a fifteen minute climb to the rim, then an hour to walk all around. But as soon as I saw it, I was back in The Lost World. Its green, sulphuric slime teems with life, and it’s forbidden to go down to the edge. We did, of course, bring back a pterodactyl, but unfortunately it escaped. Just like in the film.