View from Symonds Yat inspires literary blog posting

A week-end walk along the Wye began in thick, cold fog and ended in the sort of winter sunshine that would destroy any embryonic thought of emigration. These are my wistful notes from the moment the sun broke through at the top of the rock:

'A fog-dense shroud draped itself over every rock, every tree, occasionally lifting its hem to play with our hopes. A hint of autumnal gold here, a dark swathe of conifer there - then nothing.

There is nothing else to see until the sun, opaque yet brilliant, scorches aside a thin protective sheen of milky white. A tree's top is revealed, barely a hint. Then another, 'til a small band of brothers stands proud through the smoke, joined now by more, the cover sinking slowly into the valley and baring forest, field and now the valley under the sun's new domain.'

Perhaps there is no need to go walking in Andalucia after all, even by train.