I rather like misty days, they remind me of cool flannels being placed on fevered brows. Our property adjoins the Blue Mountains’ National Park and sometimes bushwalkers become disoriented, blundering into my garden. I point them in the direction of Govett’s Leap, with a gentle warning to take care.
I went for walk up to the village yesterday, when it was so misty I could only see a few metres. The duck pond was barely visible. Not a single wood duck on the water.
Memorial Park was pretty well deserted.
The kookaburras were sitting lower down on the cherry tree branches, looking for a meal through the fog.
The main purpose of my walk was to check on Mr Satin Bowerbird’s impressive bower, up by the top gates.
He was still busy, but it seemed the ladies had stayed home. Moisture laden air is never good for one’s coiffure.
After a very dry winter the mist was refreshing lichens and mosses on tree trunks and bare branches. So beautiful.
The main street in the village resembled a scene from Dickens. All it needed was a horse drawn hansom cab to come clattering down from the station.
Cars had their lights on, but fog horns would have been handy as well.
Back home, the budding wattles were providing some colour, albeit muted. It will be spring in a few days, officially anyway.
By now it was more foggy rain than mist. Time to light the fire and put the kettle on.
There are early spring bulbs on the sill, almost as warming as a lamp.