Fog in the Goyt.
The fog is thick and swirls disconcertingly around me. Well at least the forecast was right for a change! Droplets of damp air mist my glasses, making it even more difficult to see. I take them off. They are not much use today. Fog does strange things to the mind. It disorientates you. I know where I am, but where the hell am I? I have been lost up here before with Lucy, several years ago. I fight back against the irrational surge of panic that tries to seep into the dark and doubting corners of my mind. I will walk faster. I quicken my pace. Nothing seems familiar, even the path lovingly trod through out the summer seems strange and unrecognisable. It is the same everywhere, a grey blanket. And through it emerges a familiar sight. The small wooden bridge that crosses a stream and a marshy patch of ground. I recognise it like an old friend glanced across an unfamiliar pub. I stop to lean on the wooden rail and listen. Silence. I carry on up hill, confident now, fears of being lost banished, on up the hill trying to stick to the path. Once I have reached the old railway track I know that it is an easy stroll from there back to the car park. I reach the broken tumbled remains of the dry stone walls that are gradually falling down the hillside, stride over the mound of old spoil, and onto the track. Relief? Yes but I glance back wistfully at the path disappearing into the mist. Now I know that I am not going to wander off the path, I realise of course that it has been fun, a small adventure, taking me away for a few moments from the certainty of our humdrum lives.