There was no need for sunscreen this morning. The besieging mist limited visibility with a veil of damp greyness that chilled the face and numbed the hands. The opaque blanket clung low to the soggy earth squeezing the acrid stench of marsh gas between its folds. All sound was stifled, like the muffled oars of a smuggler’s skiff passing close offshore on a raw winter’s night.
Walking on the springy grass proved to be a surprisingly agreeable experience. A grey world of misty dampness parted with each step, and then closed in behind. The eerie cocoon in which I existed was a private and curiously comforting place to be. Having established an effortless rhythm and pace, a mood of wellbeing settled on me – a feeling forgotten since childhood; a contented familiarity with nature in which I felt acknowledged and silently understood.