The valley below our village is often subjected to a blanket of fog at
this time of year. Depending on the temperature, it can start to descend around
sunset, and come morning the valley is all but obliterated. Hills just manage
to break the surface, looking like islands marooned in a vast white sea, the
giant power pylons emerge like monsters from the deep, and the fog starts to
move, reaching out its tendrils as the sun tops the horizon and the mercury attempts
to rise.
Until that point, the chill bores its way right through to your marrow.
The trees drip, birds stay nestled, all is quiet, save footsteps crunching on the
gravel. There’s no need to touch any wet surfaces, your skin turns moist just
with the act of walking, turning your ears and the tip of your nose numb.
It might not be particularly pleasant, but at least you know you’re
alive.
wrapped in wet blanket
bone chilling
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