A Mist Laden Landscape
Needing to escape the festivities for some much needed fresh air and writing inspiration? Well that was me, as I here recall. Parallels may be drawn...
By late afternoon on Boxing Day and with natural daylight already on the slide, I knew that if I was going to find any time for a fresh air walk, I’d have to lace my boots sharpish and get out there. Once the decision was made then, it took but a few swift minutes to don my boots, zip on a fleece and winter jacket, close the wreath-dressed door behind me and head out in search of refreshment and rejuvenation.
Clean air was needed to clear away the yearly feeling of laziness and over-indulgence, during this self-imposed Christmas lockdown, even if I had tried to steer well clear of excess this year. Just yards from the front door my dreamy festive walk met with reality though, as a freshness nipped at my cheeks and cold air tingled my nostrils. Still, as the first proper leg-stretching opportunity I’d had since Christmas Eve, I was simply set on enjoying this little expedition, especially knowing that a slice of home-made chocolate yule log awaited my return.
I like to think that everyone hunkers down for Christmas, taking the opportunity to step away from the year’s treadmill for a couple of days at least, but I know the reality can be somewhat different. In a dose of realism, the morning’s radio had reminded me that road networks around shopping centres were jammed, thousands were travelling to sporting arenas up and down the country, and leagues of people had made their way to beaches for their traditional Boxing Day dip in the sea. Each to their own I think, but whilst I might have wished to be one of just a few hardy souls out for a much-needed stroll, I could hardly be surprised to see many others doing just the same. There were cars in good numbers whooshing about, a walking group in lively discussion, plus dog walkers out seeking similar rewards to myself – all beneath the village’s bright Christmas lights.
Less than ten minutes from leaving the house my hands had assumed a default position deep in the warmth of my jacket pockets, and I found myself heading in an easterly direction towards the edge of the village. Stepping on and off the path to let others pass, nodding and smiling but always continuing at pace, I kept on walking. All the time though I found myself becoming ever more aware of the atmosphere around me, for as the roads widened to reveal a greater swathe of sky, thick low cloud made its heavy presence felt. I became so intrigued by the afternoon air that I decided to extend the range I’d originally envisaged, and rather than turnabout or loop-back via other roads, continue my walk out beyond the edge of the village.
Venturing beyond the village border isn’t as taxing as I might suggest, being nothing like a mountain hike of course, but it can present its challenges. As the footpath ends abruptly walkers are presented with two choices, either to try their luck walking in the roadside against oncoming traffic, or stumble along the tussocky grass verge that is peppered with ankle twisting potholes. Neither presents the hardest trial, but as no provision was ever made for those who might wish to walk easily from one village to the next, I found myself hopping awkwardly between the two, huffing invisibly at each approaching car.
Still, as I padded on beyond village limits heading for a nearby side road, where I knew my walk would be altogether more peaceful, the lingering mist all around again came to mind. Had it not been for the repetition and noise of passing cars, I would happily have paused motionless on the side of the road for a while and stared happily into the fields. Keen not to look like a hitchhiker waiting for a lift however, I kept on walking, eventually turning off to head along a single track through open country: a quieter road where I might empty my mind and become more easily at one with the world around me.
A little way along the lane, the world around me could not have been any more different from the home where I’d sat an hour or so earlier, or even the village I’d departed just a few minutes before. Out there in the largely flat farmlands I walked along a lonesome track where the earth and sky met peaceably. A single tarmac drive cutting through the landscape, its raised grassy edges supporting mature avenue-like trees that had kept the track company for a century at least. Beyond the trees, arable fields in low winter growth faded away after a hundred yards or so; not thick fog by a long stretch but mist, air heavily laden with moody moisture.
Everything was coated in wetness. The road surface was damp, as was the bark on the trees, the road signs, and especially my boots from periodic walking along sodden grass verges when the odd car passed by. Large vehicle-worn roadside potholes, filled cheaply with rubble had formed mini ponds too, where between brick and stone, reflections of silhouetted trees could be artfully enjoyed. Tractor tracks pressed into the field margins also presented themselves as still ribbons of light, which along with wider pools gave pretty confirmations that the soil too was full to the brim.
To complete the picture though, whilst everything solid might have been wet to touch, it was the air itself that was sealing the day’s deal. The atmosphere was dense and fully loaded, not by those all-too-familiar raindrops but their altogether finer friends, millions of misty microscopic beads that hung, drifted and floated generously around. In such quantity the mist dominated the day, restricting my field of vision yet allowing me to more intently engage in the landscape I found myself in.
Stopping frequently to take images of the elements on display, I sought to capture and retain the essence of my walk. I wasn’t sure what those retained images might be, but standing and staring in silence, occasionally awkward for the passage of cars, an emotive scene entered my mind: a village and its surrounding landscape enveloped in the mist, its scale lost, its edges softened, its presence subdued.
Whilst it took a festive foray to see through the fog, I realise now that the day was itself unique. I may not have been able to study the sunset as I had just a few days before or see the vast parkland oaks clearly nor the hanging wood. Neither could I enjoy any red kites circling over the hedgerows or float my gaze along a mile or two of the Fosse way ridge, but the day, albeit with reduced vision, could be seen clearer than ever.
Heading back home, I was glad on a simple level that a few miles had been added to my tally, a much-needed dose of oxygen had been received and my legs were effectively stretched. I could see that my fresh-air walk may have delivered a grey winter scene with a dampness that tried in vain to penetrate my core, but it had in fact delivered much more than hoped for.
That misty vale caused me to hear more distinctly, to see more clearly the elements close at hand, to imagine those out of sight and to feel more deeply the atmosphere and mood. A quiet walk out for a while had become a journey of absorption, the briefest of expeditions that indulged my senses and reawakened them for hours beyond. Now, barely twenty-four hours on from my miss-adventure and with the last of the yule log polished off, I feel myself still standing there along the lane, feeling the chill, and peering into the mist.
A Mist Laden Landscape, by Gary Webb.