There is no sound beyond the tread of our boots on the road. It echoes back to us from the wall of white which hugs the edge of the fields. It is not thick fog today, it doesn’t obstruct our view—it softens the line of the grey sea just visible between the gaps in the hedge and creates bubbles of sound. Every noise feels closer, as though poured in through headphones. The chatter of the sparrows becomes intimate, their chirruping whispers close into our ears as we walk between the tall hedgerows. The mizzle hangs in the air without falling, catching on the swaying heads of grasses and the lips of foxgloves. The road is lined with damp resplendence— jewelled cobwebs stretch across pink shining stonecrop; a smooth glass snail curls tightly around the stem of a giant hogweed holding its geometric seed bouquets—hung with moisture— up to the sky, up to the sparrows. The gorse has no flowers today, instead it holds seedpods tight to its chest. Dark furry pouches, like rabbit’s paws, hide beneath clusters of dark green stars.

The mist makes the miniature world loom larger. Just as the sparrows’ mellow chatter dominates, so the creamy spires of pennywort have their moment today. They glow against the weary, dampness of the larger hedgerow plants. The unassuming discs of leaves skirt the base of small proud spires of tight tubelike blossoms. Fresh and strong against the world-weary foxgloves, and ragged glistening brambles, they shine out between the soft blue haze of scabious and the dulled yellow hawkweed.

On the bend a tree mallow lolls. For all the world a picture of the morning-after-the-night-before.