Danceswithcats

Misted Spires, Silver Cobwebs And A Joyful Dog

A dog runs out of the mist along a hedged path, and a church tower, surrounded by trees, makes a misted silhouette in the background.
A dog runs out of the mist along a hedged path, and a church tower, surrounded by trees, makes a misted silhouette in the background.
A dog runs out of the mist along a hedged path, and a church tower, surrounded by trees, makes a misted silhouette in the background.

Walking Hazel this morning was a cure for the post-Christmas malaise.

The fog was thick even as far up the town as our house. In Whippingham, it was like a veil, and St Mildred’s looked like a fantasy castle. I was listening to The Sword of Destiny, by Andrzej Sapkowski, beautifully read by Peter Kenny. The weather suited the story telling, and I could almost picture a dragon gliding up from the Medina, the mist making swirling vortices at its wingtips.

Droplets of mist outline a tangle of cobwebs on the branches of a tree on the edge of a winter wood.
Droplets of mist outline a tangle of cobwebs on the branches of a tree on the edge of a winter wood.
Droplets of mist outline a tangle of cobwebs on the branches of a tree on the edge of a winter wood.

Down in the woods, across the fields, the cobwebs were silver with mist drops. The mist settled on my beard and on Hazel’s muzzle. I wanted to go on, through the woods, down to the Folly Inn and along the path to Newport, walking all day. It was a workday though, and I had to be at Westridge by midday, to do paperwork and then teach an evening class: as prosaic a use of a day as the morning was poetic.

All the same, for an hour, I felt free, and my spirits were lifted, and work was a little less oppressive because of the beauty of the morning.

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peterm

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