Mist veils the landscape, and it feels timeless and ancient. The woods become gothic catherdrals. The pathways seem endless, eternal remote. Void of background, and silent except for the shriek of a pheasant some distance away, you are isolated and the world fades. Droplets of water hang like diamonds from twigs and weeds, lichen and cobwebs. Lone trees slowly rise from the void, their bare branches gaining clarity as they loom stark and solid from the formless grey.
A Third day of fog and mist. I decided to visit the reservoir at British Camp, hoping to catch a picture of the mist rising from the water, but the fog is far to dense and the water cannot be distinguished from it. However still there is beauty everywhere, so mist shrouded it feels like your walking in a dream, or a place outside of life's brash noise and colour. Somewhere other. Not the edge of heaven, but an enchanted no where world.
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