The ridge path in fog

I left before sunrise, hoping to see the valley from the ridge. Instead, the fog came up to meet me, and for three hours the world was twenty metres wide.

Walking in fog changes the scale of everything. You stop looking for views and start looking at what is near: the beads of water on a spider web, the bark of a single beech, the sound of a sheep you never see.

The ridge path is about eleven kilometres from the church to the old quarry. It is well marked, which is a good thing on a morning like this one. I counted the waymarks out of habit, and was glad of every one.

What I carried

• A thermos of coffee, brewed a bit stronger than usual
• The notebook, a pencil, and a spare pencil
• A wool layer I did not need until the descent

Lesson of the day

Fog is not the absence of a view. It is a different view.

By eleven, the sun burned through above the quarry. I sat on a cold stone and watched the valley appear, field by field, like a photograph in a developing tray.