fogs i have known; one i have loved

You’re driving in the pea soup of the Yorkshire moors, certain you can hear those puppies of Baskerville at every turn—not that every, or any, turn can actually be seen—and then, after some miracle of finding the way back to where you’re staying you hear the news that the roads in the moors have been closed all afternoon due to especially bad weather. 

In Newfoundland, you sit on the rocks right at the edge of the sea with a picnic dinner and a bottle of wine, when out in the distance, over the water, comes a mist. At first it’s pretty, ha ha, you say, look at the pretty mist… But you’re from Ontario and you have no idea. You think you will continue sipping your wine, that the mist will just stay where it is, but then you notice it’s moving or, more accurately: ominously marching your way. In seconds it travels what appears to be miles, obliterating the landscape as it goes. Poof!  Now you see rocks and trees and ocean. Now you don’t. And you can’t help thinking you’ll soon be next. You grab your picnic and head for the shelter of your B&B, which is much further away than you’d like at this point—and The Thing continues to come. The air is suddenly icy and within moments you can see nothing. It’s like being invaded by some silent invisible army. You sit on the porch, grateful for your wine, because if this is the end of the world at least you have that. Later, in the B&B, you tell the lovely owners about this extraordinary event and the way they look at you… well, you have never felt more like you’re from Ontario.

The ferry from Victoria to Vancouver. It’s your first crossing and you’re lucky, the ship is almost empty, you can sit where you like. You look forward to the view; you’ve been told it’s spectacular. But boo, there’s heavy fog. For a while you worry how the ship will find it’s way, you become tense and slightly pissed off about the non-view. But then something about all that nothingness turns comforting. The world seems bigger somehow precisely because you can’t see it. You write and sketch and take hazy photos. You don’t even like boats but sailing through this cloud is one of the most relaxing things you’ve ever done...

2 thoughts on “fogs i have known; one i have loved

  1. Yes… fog. It’s both a monster and a blanket. I love being fogged in by the sea. Once we were stranded in a whiteout on a mountain in Tirol with only bedraggled sheep for company. Not sure which way to descend because we couldn’t see the valley or village below, and the sheep didn’t want us to leave at all. They were lonely. Your fog stories have prompted my own foggy memories…

  2. Yes, I love it. But only if I’m somewhere safe. I would have been VERY nervous on that mountain.

    BTW, I can’t stop picturing those lonely sheep shouting come baaaa-ck!


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