I found, to my dismay, that any attempt I made to escape the fog proved to be futile. It came out of seemingly nowhere. When I left the house to walk down the road, the sun shone. Beyond, to the West, however, I saw a grey shroud that, to my naive estimation at the time, looked to be far away. By far away, I mean back by the fold of green hills that roll down by Liam's house. I felt confident that I would be able to make it there and back and in turn ensure that the dogs had a decent run for the day. But as I walked forward, the fog encroached on my path like steam from a kettle that can suddenly cloud the kitchen window pane in mere seconds. I felt a sense of panic with the limited vision and wondered if the occasional car that might pass by could pick us out on the roadside. Within moments the fog had rolled in to where I stood and held me captive in its spiderish grip. The dogs looked bewildered but nevertheless continued to walk ahead. I considered my situation. In the far off distance I could make out the gable end of our house and decided to use it as a beacon.
The warmth of the home was a comfort to me as I opened the back door and I swore to myself as I untied my boots because I had deposited large black smears of mud on the rug. Still, I thought, the mud would dry and the fog would pass. Eventually. The fog can be beautiful, from the inside looking out, delicate as a web it appears flimsy in spots and then just as easily, it can turn into a grey sticky treacle like matter. Just try walking in it though, when you become befuddled, swamped and trapped by a lost sense of direction, even if you know that deep down underneath, beneath the surface of your being is a screaming to get out and the way home is clear and navigable.