Wolsingham, Weardale: In the fog every surviving thread was spangled with water droplets, sparkling as the sun broke through
Swirling fog plays tricks. As we crossed an open field the silhouette of an oak loomed, with a glimmer of pale yellow light cradled in its branches, before it dissolved back into the clammy miasma.
We had descended from the high fells, from clear blue sky and crystal-clear views into a monochrome lake of valley fog, cold grey vapour trapped by warmer air above. It thickened as we followed the footpath along the riverbank.
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