Some days at this time of year I look out of the window at grey skies and a dark landscape and wonder if it's worth going for a walk. It always is. There's always something to see and feel, even if it's just a skin numbing wind and sheets of rain and sleet. Sometimes it's more than that, much more. A recent day was like that. Unpromisingly dull and flat, it seemed. But as I wandered the fields and woods the mists hanging in the valley started to rise and fall, drifting amongst the trees. The world became magical. In the distance I caught glimpses of snow-spattered mountains, freed for brief seconds from their blanket of clouds.
Trees appeared and disappeared, sometimes seeming to float in the air, ethereal and unreal. The land was quiet. A flock of rooks sailed silently overhead. Rabbits raced for their burrows. The air was cold, damp, sharp, scraping the skin. But it was peaceful watching the mist, watching the world changing constantly. A quiet insubstantial beauty.
Wandering home I felt reluctant to go back inside and took a meandering route, seeking out pockets of mist. I was glad I'd gone outside. I always am.
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