I haven't the foggiest idea why, but there's a crazy old man around here who always goes out for a walk when it's a foggy morning.
He tramps through the village with a camera swinging from his shoulder till he gets to the most muddy and waterlogged bit of land he can find, then tries to take photos. In a bog, in the fog.
Not all madmen seek power in high office; some are content to seek out quietness and solitude, both of which are enhanced by early mornings and misty weather. Even the sounds which can be heard - the drip of dew from the leaves, the swish of boots through the grass and the call of unseen geese - only serve to emphasise the stillness.
Passing by the old churchyard.
The seasonal pond is full after the recent rains and there are a few sheep in this field.
I'm always attracted to the old hawthorn stumps left in the wet meadow. This area is managed as a nature reserve as grasslands like this are a rare habitat around here; so much of the land has been drained.