I am out early with the dog and my head-torch lights up thousands of tiny water droplets - 100 per cent humidity, There are beads of water suspended on stock fencing. Mae'n niwlog. There's a kind of geographical amnesia when walking in mist - the familiar becomes strange and it is possible to lose one's way, even on familiar paths. There is a sense of being enclosed, like being on a small island. The thick fogs of my Midlands childhood were legendary ('pea soupers'). My father would walk the eight and a half miles home from work because public transport had been cancelled.
Gradually the landscape comes alive. A blackbird sets off its jincking alarm call, rooks start having a conversation in the sycamores at the edge of the field, in the distance I can hear wood pigeons - cooroocoo, cooroo. Small brown birds flit ahead of us keeping close to the cover of the hedge. The cockerel at the muddy farm has woken up - insistently. Now the mist starts to lift - slightly. Despite the murk I can see bright pinpoints of yellow on gorse bushes along the banks of the lane. The lower slopes of the hills start to appear, and the low cloud just smirrs the top of Moel y Penmaen at 153 metres.
Traditionally the Winter Solstice is when we welcome (entice) back the light, just a few days before we celebrate Christmas.
THE CONSOLATION OF LIGHT
Sunset flaring the winter sea
Crescent moon and evening star
Candle flame in a small window.
© Mary Robinson 2017