A misty morning

On our first morning in the rental house in the Vendée, a Sunday, I felt a slight chill in the air and noticed ground fog forming in the low lands on either side of the river. Tasha and I were out for a walk as the sun came up over the shallow valley. Mist rose from the river like steam from a hot bath. It hugged the hillsides, unable to climb much higher than my head.

Barbed-wire fences marked the boundaries between pastures.

We walked along the road parallel to the river. The water flowed so slowly that it was almost imperceptible. On either bank, neatly cropped pastures stood empty, the cows probably still huddled in their barns. With the exception of some birdsong and the occasional frantic flapping of a duck taking to the air, there was no sound.

A rare opening in the pasture fence. We didn't go in.

Tasha made her way, nose to the ground, trying to figure out the lay of the land and who, and what, had passed before us. By the end of our walk, the mist had gone.