Wednesday, June 05, 2013

Foggy Morning

By Belinda

Just yesterday I was telling a friend who was visiting, about a certain misty morning at Maplewood Lodge. I'd written about it, and said that I would post that story again. I haven't been able to find it quickly; there are an amazing 2,335 posts on this blog now! However, I did find another post about a foggy morning right here in Bond Head, written in 2009. I loved reliving that morning and while I will continue my search for the original story, here is the one I did find, which brought back a lovely memory:

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 my childhood in England, when the fog descended on our village and 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 all 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 loved reading as a child. 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 manAll 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


Leslie said...

I live in a place that is often foggy. Your story has moved me to look for the wonder in the fog instead of bemoaning it. Did you ever discover who the mystery bagpipe player was! :)

Belinda said...

Hi Leslie, I know he (or she) lives a couple of houses down from us. We don't know them well but I have since heard the bagpipes as I've walked past their house with Molson.

Enjoy your fog! :)