As I am about to go off for a week to the Lincolnshire Wolds temperatures rise and, as a result, mist swathes the hills and the bare trees. Over the sea where, in clear weather, the mountains of Llŷn can be seen in the far distance across an expanse of water, there is grey fog and it is difficult to imagine anything beyond it. At times like this the land takes on a cloak of mystery. The snow was definite, absolute. It was in Lincolnshire yesterday but now it is raining there and I expect to arrive without finding roads difficult to traverse. Such a place is this island that it can be transformed overnight with contrary weather: a veil of cloud can descend where before there was a hard crisp clarity now dissolved to softness which is the preferred dress of our island Goddess though her moods often change on a whim. In such variegated hues she is beloved.