We walked a familiar route but the narrowness of view and the lowness of the cloud made seeing the micro rather than the macro so much easier. Even sounds seemed suppressed, as if cotton-wool had been wrapped around cars and bird song - we could hear them, but it was wistful and distant.
The dank air held a lot of moisture and it left a fine layer of droplets on everything. Some twinkled, reflecting what light they could and others glistened damply making the air smell melancholy. Despite it being well and truly winter, trees still had some leaves and they hung, swinging lightly in the breeze.
One ray of sunshine lead us to the river's edge and flung herself into the steel grey water. Grinning from her chops to her tail, Moss swam around retrieving sticks bobbing in the water.
Further along, some small bird had 'exploded' on contact with the resident raptor leaving just a few droplet twinkled feathers on a mossy wall. It's demise meaning the survival of another. Bitter sweet.
Still loitering along the river, a small blue piece of pottery shone out between the millstone grit pebbles - it made it's way into my hand and into my pocket of course.
Looking for another meal?
By the time we had returned, we were ready for a mug of tea and finish off the fruit cake.
*brumal - means 'of or characteristic to winter' and comes from the Latin bruma meaning winter. Brumal shares roots with the word brume meaning 'mist' or 'fog'