On Sunday morning, we awoke to a world gently blanketed in dense, grey fog. Around the streetlights, fading into dawn, halos shimmered. The hills, the rooftops, the edge of the garden, all were lost to the murk. By the middle of the morning, we were ready for an adventure, setting off for the woods. The road up to the hills was shrouded in gloom, skeletal branches wavering through the dimness. As we reached the top, rays of sunlight began to slice through, diffused by the fog, illuminating the beech leaves with a golden glow. The trees were delicately strung with spiderwebs, gossamer-thin strands all twinkling, as the light gradually returned. When the cloud of fog began to lift, mist patches drifted, like damp swirling smoke, over the houses below. The warmth of the sun melted away the frosty droplets on the grass, and the world appeared once more from beneath its foggy cloak: wet, bright, shining, beautiful and new.