We were up at the crack of nine, bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready to rock and roll. We thought we’d be underway by ten.
That had been a good plan, but when we opened the curtains that sliver of golden sunshine that had seemed to cross our bed earlier may actually have been the glow of the streetlight above us peering in through a crack. At first the silhouette of the sun was vaguely visible through the fog, but by our planned departure time visibility had reduced from “we can see a bit” to “we can’t see a thing”.
By almost lunchtime if we stood on one leg and squinted really carefully, we thought we could make out the other side of the lake, which we took to be a sign that we could get underway albeit with a certain degree of circumspection. Finally “home” in Diksmuide in what by then was the crystal clear of the late afternoon, the morning fog seemed as far back in time as the rest our journeying this year.
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