Fog. Frost. Freezing fogs and frosts. Fog was rolling down the valley past our place this morning. It seems to mimic the water - all the tributaries meeting at the main flow. The rivulet flows down into the Derwent River, and our little stream of fog follows along above it and joins the massive bank of fog going down the Derwent. The river fog here is called Bridgewater Jerry for some reason lost in time.
Question - does the fog come up from the water? Or does the fog originate in some mystical way at the same source as the water and just follow it? Water follows contours, and so does fog, but fog has a bit of extra gaseous freedom that lets it waft around with the wind.
So, in closing: fog eh?
2 comments:
In many ways, the idea of spending a winter in Hobart chills me to the bone. However your description of that lovely fog, makes my heart yearn for a Tasmanian climate with hills and rivulets, green lush foliage and some secluded moments away from the unforgiving mechanical drone that is Melbourne morning traffic.
When I think about some of my happiest Tasmanian memories, it invariably includes wet leaves and gravel under foot crunching as I wander through paths with a cold red nose. Happy go lucky childhood memories of fog over paddocks and observing the beauty of a puddle covered with frosty ice, reflecting and refracting the early morning sun moments before I violently smashed it into a thousand shards with my size 3 gumboots. Sentimentality is short lived for an eight year old.
I love Tasmania.
In many ways, the idea of spending a winter in Hobart chills me to the bone. However your description of that lovely fog, makes my heart yearn for a Tasmanian climate with hills and rivulets, green lush foliage and some secluded moments away from the unforgiving mechanical drone that is Melbourne morning traffic.
When I think about some of my happiest Tasmanian memories, it invariably includes wet leaves and gravel under foot crunching as I wander through paths with a cold red nose. Happy go lucky childhood memories of fog over paddocks and observing the beauty of a puddle covered with frosty ice, reflecting and refracting the early morning sun moments before I violently smashed it into a thousand shards with my size 3 gumboots. Sentimentality is short lived for an eight year old.
I love Tasmania.
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