adventures in fog-walking

The  Cliffs of Moher,  on Ireland's west coast. A beautiful spot where tourists gather to view steep cliffs, unusual marine birds, and the waves of the unruly Atlantic crashing onto the rocks far, far below.

When I arrived there, all I saw was fog. And tourists. Disappointed tourists.

( I seem to attract fog, especially when I go to places of great natural beauty - see this post. )

I and my friends set out on a leisurely walk along a path. Away from the other tourists, it was lovely. One one side there was only fog. On the other side, you could vaguely see grassy fields and a few cows staring at us from the other side of a fence. The air smelled of grass and flowers and was warm, despite the fog. Larks were singing. I felt the peace of a quiet summer's day settle in me.

There was nothing, really, to indicate that you were near the sea, except a muted sound of waves somewhere. And the flat rocks we were walking on seemed to just end a few metres to our left. I went near the edge and had my friend take a picture of me from some distance.

Not until I actually saw the picture I realised just how steep the Cliffs of Moher are, or that there really was nothing but air beyond that edge.

I came back some time later and saw the cliffs and the sea in all their glory. But in this case, I was more impressed by the fog.