On days like this when the cloud reaches the ground, and mist rolls in from the sea, I can hardly make out the fence at the bottom of the garden. There are birds on the feeders, but I need binoculars to see that they are. But it’s mild, and means that even though I won’t be able to see far, I can get out and peer through the fog towards the lighthouse at Mumbles Head and listen to the sea.
There’s no wind, and I can sometimes just make out the lighthouse, which constantly appears, then disappears, in and out of the fog. The sound of the sea is different through fog. Gentle waves caress the shore, sending a soft hissing sound around the car park at Bracelet Bay. Gulls fly fleetingly into view, and I wonder how they navigate in such conditions. The foghorn from the lighthouse sounds near. No longer a horn, its modern note still conjures up danger, as does the occasional more gentle sound of the bell from the invisible Mixon buoy. There are no tourists here, just a few locals sitting in cars peering out into the dull, grey wall.
I walk to Limeslade Bay a short distance to the west. Down on the beach it’s fog-free, but above is a ceiling of grey, creating the feeling of a strange, covered, outdoor amphitheatre. The rocks are wet and slippery, and from the bench at the head of the beach I still can’t see the sea. What a joy is it to live by the sea, which is never the same, and always a delight, even on the dullest of days.