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I set this morning’s alarm early last night and was out of bed by seven. Not bad for a Sunday. I wanted to get out onto the flood plain before the mist from the river was burnt off by the sun.

I wrapped up under plenty of layers, but could still feel the cold inside my gloves and the nettles along the side of the road were frosty. By the time I got to the plain my ears were red raw, and felt as though they had been cut along the tops, but the view across the flat grassy land was just what I had been hoping to see.

A low fog hung over the muddy grass, and where the river slid back and forth through it the mist was thicker, whiter, and curling slowly up from the water. I climbed down the steps from the bridge onto the brittle grass and walked along the bank towards the mill. The reflections of the sky looked fantastic as the sun slowly came up behind the clouds.

At one point I turned my back on the lonely sillhouettes of the one or two trees standing leafless in the middle of the mist to take a picture of the dappled sky reflected on the perfectly still surface of the river. It can’t have been more than a minute later that I turned back around, and the mist had gone.

For a second I suddenly felt very exposed. Just a few seconds before everywhere had been shrouded in lazy white fog, and now all but the furthest corners of the plain were clear. I sorely regret turning my back as it disappeared.

As I got to the mill I took my last few pictures and then, as though to say goodbye, the clouds parted just a little and spat out a brilliant arc of sunshine - the first rays of the morning. In a second the clouds closed up again. It was like the sky taking a picture of me after I had taken so many of itself. The sun had gone and I walked slowly back home past the rose hips and cookoo spit.

I went around to mum’s to warm up with porridge and tea and tickles with the cat, and looked at my pictures on her computer. Not bad. About five I like, I think. We fiddled with her PC, trying to get the TV card to spit out sound to go with the pictures, but to no avail, and I left at half twelve so I could be home in time for a lift to Paul’s parents.

When we arrived his parents, sister, cousing, uncle, aunt and grandparents were already there and lunch was doing well in the oven. I perched in the kitchen and chatted to Helen while she sorted out the veg and, as the assembled crowd started to drift in and out, retreated to the kitchen table to read the Sunday Times.

Paul and I had Quorn while the others ate lamb and beef, and an hour later, feeling full and sleepy, we collapsed into the lounge for coffee and chocolates. Helen gave me my third Christmas card of the year and for a while I planned to go home and decorate the flat. I’ve since decided it’s still too early for Christmas. Next weekend perhaps.

This entry was posted on Sunday, December 9th, 2001 at 9:22 am and is filed under Journal, Picture story. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.