This must be what they call a cold front. I set off this morning in sunshine, under a cloudless blue sky.
That blue sky’s goodbye gesture is that bit of blue in the photo, top right. As was said in rural Oxfordshire in Days of Yore: “There weren’t enough blue to knit a pair of leggings for a skylark” (according to Flora Thompson in Lark Rise to Candleford.)
When I reached the road that stretched across the northern slope of the valley, I could see the fog rolling up from Black Hill in the south. It was as though it was contained by a glass wall, the dividing line between the two weather states was so precise.
The fog, or mist, or cloud (take your pick) rolled up the slope, though I could feel no wind. Then the air was full of suspended water droplets, the light went, and the temperature plummeted.
This sudden change of weather is so dangerous on the moors of northern England
Within ten minutes, the winter had arrived. I watched my battery power on the scooter carefully, and pulled on hat and gloves.