Last night, at midnight, I had to drive to a nearby town. The narrow, country road wound through beech woods; their branches joining above into a canopy. Mine was the only car on the road. The day had been stuffy and there was rain in the air so my windows were wound down - I love the smell of rain. My new radio still wasn't working. I drove for a few minutes in silence, the only sound the drone of my Land Rover's engine. Rounding a bend into a particularly thick patch of wood I slowed down; swirling on top of the tarmac were ribbons of glistening white mist. No more than a couple of feet from the surface of the road, somewhat reminiscent of a scene from Hammer, the mists were dancing and winding in slow motion as if blown by an ethereal wind.
For the next twenty minutes I drove on through this quiet scene; green-black trees, bright white headlights and eddying mists. Locally they used to be called 'will-o-the-wisps', and there is a legend that they heralded the ghostly saviour of a nearby World War II airfield. Others used to say that they were lost spirits, in limbo until judgment. Whether supernatural omens or water vapour condensing after a hot day, the mists made my drive last night almost a spiritual experience, and another reason why I am thankful to call this place home.
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