The rain had just stopped and suddenly a mist rolled up like smoke through the orchard.
The photo shows it beginning to clear.
This morning it was brilliantly sunny. The dew was sparkling and the golden leaves swam in a blue sky.
I had to go into the valley on various errands because Clive is due to be admitted to a rehabilitation centre next week, and as I went down I sank deeper and deeper into fog.
On my return home, I broke the ceiling of the fog and popped into the sunshine, like surfacing out of a cold and murky pond.
But almost as soon as I’d parked up, I noticed that the mist was rising. The photo shows the nearest mountain just peeping out before it’s engulfed.
Then the fog reached me where I was. It was like day had turned to night in the blink of an eye. It could have been a different day; a different season. I was very glad of the blazing fire in our stove.
I took this photo with a zoom lens from our back door this morning. It shows Monte Subasio – the great whaleback mountain in the background – with the radio mast that transmits the signal for Radio Subasio, a private radio station.
Later in the day I was the other side of Monte Subasio, getting the car loaded up with sacks of pellets. The mountain loomed over us, riding above the mist, with the snow much more in evidence.
A bell was tolling out of the mist.
“What church is that?” I asked the lad who was loading the car. “And why is it tolling in the middle of the day?”
“Oh that’s Santa Maria. There’s a funeral.”
It was almost like the world stopped. Froze. A snowy mountain, a church bell and the thought of someone slipping away into eternity.
“It’s having a real effect on me,” I told the lad.
He smiled, so I’m guessing he understood.
This is my response to the challenge issued by Cecilia in her blog ‘thekitchensgarden’.
I took the photos today in not very photogenic weather. Here our al fresco dining area is shining wet from the latest shower and Mount Subasio, beloved of St Francis, is blotted out by mist.
The plant bulging over the tiled surface on the left is thyme, and behind it, in front of the yellow roses, is one of many clumps of love-in-a-mist.
Just to the right of the door, a very different scene with the rain now drying up.
Galileo is climbing on what we call our ‘cold frame’ – spare double-glazed windows propped on crates so as to provide shelter for seedlings. You can see he’s wearing a bell round his neck – the sort hunting dogs wear. It has a lovely Alpine tinkle which we hope will enable us to find out where he goes when he runs off frightened and doesn’t come back for hours. The other two dogs are keeping him company.
Behind the cold frame is what we call the ‘shelter’ – pallets held upright by stakes driven into the ground – designed to stop light seed trays etc from blowing away in the wind. It’s got pretty cluttered over time.
To the left of the cold frame is the barbecue which we never finished building but which we’ve used like it is, with the blocks laid dry. At the moment it’s full of rosemary prunings so that our next fire will smell nice.
Beyond the stub lamp is a glimpse of the nearest house in that direction. It’s the only one which could, conceivably, overlook us!
It’s been grey and misty today with non-stop rain.
Typical, when we’d arranged to have a delivery of pellets for the stove and were obliged to cancel because otherwise the sacks would come into the house wet.
Before today, there was blue sky and bright sunshine.
And a bright full moon.
Wet weather seems to be well set in now.
There hasn’t been anything dramatic like a storm; just steady rain with frequent mist.
(I catch myself saying that the mist has come down, whereas in fact it comes up, rolling up from the valley like smoke.)
The first wet evening, after we’d taken the car out not long previously, I opened the front door and blinked.
Apart from on the car, there were leaves everywhere – all over the path, the flowerbeds, the gravel, and falling as I watched.
Some combination of cold and damp had caused the oak trees to suddenly shed the leaves which they’d held onto until then.
It quite often happens that there’s fog below us and yet our house is sitting in brilliant sunshine.
Here it’s sunset, the first lights are pricking out, and mist is filling the valley like a white sea.
The coping of the balustrade has an ethereal lack of definition, as if it were dissolving to let whoever’s standing behind it melt into the landscape.