There is much to be said for walking in sunshine, but I do love the days when the clouds love the land so much that they must come down from the sky to kiss the flowers. There is something about being wrapped in that veil of cloud that pulls everything in to a closeness. You cannot see the view so attention is held by things that are in front of your eyes. And in the wonderful pearly light of a misty day it is astonishing how the golden gorse continues to glow so bright.

There was so little wind that day that the thick air was hushed with quiet and yet noise travelled through the water so that birdsong became sharp. Away to the side the sea whispered. Wrens shouted a warning of our passing.

At the old village the cloud still wrapped all tight and the atmosphere was wonderfully eerie. The stones sang such a gentle dripping song of the lives that had touched them. Blind window eyes looked out on the wet world. The gorse smell carried a memory of sunshine days. Larks sang and a swallow would sparkle by like a blue jewel in the gray sky.

Around on the other side of the hill, by the city of badgers, bluebells still blossomed in the wood and the foxgloves were just coming through. Everywhere was emerald bright. Stitchwort threaded through the hedgebanks, campion added bright pink.

Out of the mist we came so quiet that the horses were startled by our passing. They seemed to us to be made of mist.