A wintry dip in the ocean revitalises Jonathan Self.
Fog, with apologies to Dickens, everywhere. Fog up on the hill behind the house, fog down in the valley. Fog on our little stream, where it meanders through the water meadow.
Fog in the town, fog in the village. Fog in the harbour, creeping into the cabins of the fishing boats; fog lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of the few yachts still in the water; fog drooping onto the gunwales of the ferry and…
