I didn't see the fog-dirty valley

This morning someone had crept out before me to steal the whole valley in which the office resides. The borders of Witney were, if not clear as a bell, possessed of a spring-like translucency that meant I needed to wear sunglasses to be able to look over my shoulder safely. But as I rounded a corner to descend towards my workplace I could suddenly see no more than a cyclist’s stopping-distance ahead; knowing that others wouldn’t be travelling at cycling speeds, I slowed down. A fortunate move, as it turned out, when I nearly missed the turn-off onto the long, swooping drive.

Closer to the office, I could hear what at first seemed to be a cow-bell. Where had I ended up, I wondered? Had I taken a wrong turn at the pub and headed towards the Alps? From out of the mist loomed a large, black shape, threatening and fat; this eventually coalesced into a van, with two workmen fixing the metal fence that had been crushed by a falling tree. They didn’t look up from their work as my bike—recently serviced—whispered past. Clank-clang, clank-clang went their hammers, now behind me, as I headed into more greyness in the hope that there was an office at the end of it.

This entry was posted in environment, experience, geography, location, overheard, weather. Bookmark the permalink.

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