Driving through the mist just before sunrise, after a very rainy night, down the long gentle hill in to the pretty village of Hartfield, on the north side of Ashdown Forest. Each surrounding grey hill, each grey wood, and each of the grey hills and woods that lays beyond them is clearly silhouetted against the morning mist that flows among the folds and valleys. So too, are outlined the roofs of houses and the steeple on the church, even the weather cock is distinguishable in the semi-darkness as the sky shows its first colours. Towards the far end of the village, some teenagers, who I often pass as they wait for their school transport at the bus stop, have seen my truck first and are leaping up and down to greet me, themselves grey silhouettes.
Talking to a laughing customer whose pretty little twin daughters may have inherited his dyslexia. If they also inherit just some of his quick intelligence and razor wit, and his unstoppable energy and infectious optimism, then everything will be alright.
On the hilltops of Ashdown Forest in mid-morning the sky is now very bright, and you can see the undulating line of the South Downs stretching far away towards Hampshire. But the valleys are crowded with dark dripping trees and their colder air remains brim filled with mist and woodsmoke, and a few sunbeams.
