It is late afternoon and the fog is slowly creeping across the ploughed fields, through the orchards, round the houses and along the rivers and drains.
Gradually a truly Victorian atmosphere begins to manifest itself; even the birds are quiet, all you can hear is a dog barking in the distance and the drip of water from the tree branches. Just like snow the fog dampens down and muffles the sounds of the countryside.
This late afternoon atmosphere gives you the feeling that you are a spectator moving through an Atkinson-Grimshaw painting or that you could expect to see Holmes and Watson come striding silently out of the orchard with Watson holding his service revolver at the ready.
I think my imagination has got carried-away in the fog.
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