A beautiful morning here in the small mountain kindom of Trelystan. The frosted ground is white and crisp underfoot. The sky is of the clearest blue with just a couple of perfectly placed dainty clouds. All is well with my world.My eye is caught by what appears to be smoke in the distance where garden meets field and field drops away to dingle. It's fog coming up from the valley like a stealthy beast, flooding the dingles, dips and hollows - moving at quite a lick for a bit of cold wet air. Pretty soon my world is white and muffled and lit by a pearly ethereal light. Only the tops of the trees of Badnage wood can still enjoy the sunshine. Time for a photograph or two in the vain hope I can capture something of this morning's 15 minutes of magic.When we first moved here I was enthralled by the play of weather on the wood that is our backdrop - the twists of mist which hang and twine in the treetops, the silvery sheets of rain, and frosts and snows and always the sigh of the conifers dancing in the wind. Would I still be as fascinated at winter's end, after months of bleak dreariness? Five winters on I can still watch and listen as I did in those early days - the weather in these hills is still every bit as special.
Almost as quickly the fog slipped back down the hill. No doubt there is some sound and prosaic meteorological reason for its coming and going.
As I write this, a few hours later, we're wrapped in fog again - it rolled back up the hill. This time it's the real thing; thick, heavy and here to stay.
Me? I'm now going to don coat and wellies and take the dogs down the garden where Chester can fulfill his hunting instincts by flushing out pheasants. By then it will be time to come in and light the wood burner - if it's good for nothing else this cold, grey weather makes indoors a very cosy proposition.