The swirling wall of mist slowly seeps down from the mountain side and blankets everything in its path in a wet white veil. Its cold whiskery fingers reaching out before it one by one clawing through the forest pines and hiding them from view. The tall straight trunks strong and proud swallowed up from root to branching tip by the damp sea of fog.
Slowly wandering along the quiet track alone we make our way through the forest cutting, dwarfed by the size of these impressive pine specimens. The cold misty air dampening our hair and clothes but intriguing us with its mystical, magical appearance. What lies around the bend, hidden by the fog but waiting for us to discover it?