Saturday morning. Pancakes with blueberries, the house redolent with fragrant fresh coffee, and outside--fog!
Tippy said, "It looks like there's a white backdrop outside of the window. If you got all dressed up in white, no one would be able to see you." We laughed at the thought of her fog camouflage suit.
I told of the fogs of my childhood in England. There, when fog descended on our village we groped our way around the old streets. Light came faintly from lampposts and windows and mystery hung tangibly in the air.
The fog muffled sound, adding to the sense of insulation. Time seemed to stand still--or perhaps it magically turned back several centuries, just like it did in the stories I enjoyed reading. Fog was my favourite weather.
Tippy and Victoria listened, wide eyed, fully relating to the deliciousness of imagination.
The windows were open to let in the cool morning air, and on it floated the rhythmic cricket song; the fields alive with the sound.
Then, so faint that we scattered, trying to track down the source, we heard the soft, plaintive wail of a lone bagpipe. We realized that it was coming from outside, though the mist, from the direction of a neighbour's house.
We stood at the window and listened to the haunting sound. We wondered if the piper was a nostalgic Scot.
When the music stopped, we applauded through the window.
"Encore," we cried, "Encore!"
But there was no response, and the throbbing of the cricket's song was all that was left behind...
One misty, moisty, morning,
When cloudy was the weather,
There I met an old man
All clothed in leather
All clothed in leather,
With a cap under his chin.
How do you do? And how do you do? And how do you do again
English nursery rhyme