Heavy Fog in the English Channel – Europe cut off #narrowboat #boating #boatsthattweet

Well, it were a bit misty t’other day.

Lumpy though; thicker patches did keep drifting past as though some unseen hand were stirring the pea-soup.

These photographs were taken when it had cleared somewhat, and I ventured out for my medicinal perambulations.


Bearing in mind that one of my recurring, very detailed dreams is of me in a dark, London, Whitechapel-esque street, approaching the doorway of a terraced house circa late nineteen-century, I am not going to chance my being out in fog. They didn’t catch me then, I don’t want them to have any reason to begin trying to catch me now.

I don’t even like live cereal, I certainly can’t be bothered to kill cereal.


Misty and moisty summed up the whole day. My fleece jacket, an unwise choice among many such, began to collect a layer of frost as soon as I began walking. This then gradually thawed into mere dampness. So there’s lovely for you, yes indeed, Myffanwy.


As cold as a politician’s home life, as damp as a Thames riverside cellar.

This is about as bright as it managed to get all day.


I do hope that the Continent is alright. They’re not generally composted mentos, and we ought to be there, looking after them.

Still, one can’t defy Father Nature.

Or the Met Office.

Not in England in January, and especially so not in a slightly damp fleece.

Chin-chin &etc.

Ian H.


  1. I love a good Fog. I remember one that lasted for eleven days, sometime in the 70s I recall. I enjoyed it enormously.

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    1. I remember the fogs of the 1960s. (Oh dear, giving away my age, somewhat!) Anyway, two I specifically remember. One was when I was a student in Manchester. I got off the bus to walk the short distance to my digs. I had no idea where I was and nearly walked past the end of my road. It was only thanks to a doctor’s home that had lights on the top of the gatepost that I had any idea that the next road was where I lived.
      The second one was a few years later when I was teaching in Salford. During the early afternoon, the head received a call form somebody to do with the transport (wouldn’t happen now!) saying they were stopping the buses as it was too thick to be safe. I walked from school to where I was t hen living, in Fallowfield–not that you’re likely to know where that is unless you’re from Manchester–a distance of nearly 5 miles, as near as I can tell by measuring it on Google maps.
      Those were fogs indeed. You don’t get ’em like that any more.

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      1. Fogs add a certain je ne wotsit to the world. So long as you don’t have to go anywhere other than home they can be a sort of fun. Like you I’ve seen a few pea-soupers. In one I was driving, with my window wound down and my head out of the car, it was the only way that I could see the white lines and cat’s eyes to follow them – then they disappeared too!

        Just mists and half-hearted fogs here for the moment, the week is now forecast to just be dull dull dull. ;-(


    1. The only reason that I don’t worry about recurring dreams such as the “JtR” one is because I have others. For example this morning, when I awoke having visited, for some reason, a hairdresser’s emporium. I asked for the usual close crop, they confirmed that I wanted it “on the Churchill end of the spectrum” (?) – and I was promptly given a very fancy cut with the detailed baseplate and fancy legs made of dark hair (mixed colours, such as I used to sport) allowing me to put a chandelier-like arrangment of five Chinese, red velvet candles on my head (they also had gold tassles).

      No idea what that was all about. I do worry sometimes more than others.

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  2. That’s body burying country and certainly the right conditions – foggy camoflage visibility, wet soggy digging (although heavy going) with the likelihood you will forget where you put the bodies and pass the lie detector test!

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    1. There are so many places to hide bodies, some merely time-delayed, others likely sound for perpetuity. Actually, I am moored in Axeman’s Walk at the moment, and the next couple of days are set to be foggy… maybe I ought to get my spade and unload a few?


    1. They are indeed, I love trees in any season, but they’re easier to photograph in winter.

      That said, I must question the basic core sanity of any living thing that lives out in a soggy field, sees the approach of winter and declares with not some little glee ‘Ooh goody – let’s all strip naked’. Dump your leaves, everybody.

      Even Scandinavian types only do that briefly, and they generally have some sort of sauna arrangemet nearby. Trees though, well…

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