A morning of fog. The temperature feels colder, but still not bitter. The air is sweet with sugar beet, its turnipy fug clinging to my car as I creep towards the A14.

The road is busy and slow.  Headlamps, brake lights and shifting layers of ground-scraping grey.

By the time I reach work the sun is beginning to burn through, its patch of pure white growing bigger in the sky with each passing minute.

Watching I can’t help but think of the hold this kind of weather has on our imagination, inspiring folk tales and horror films. A mysterious world of will-’o-the-wisps and “Boys, keep off the moors”.

But there is also beauty here. It’s a time when the world in which we move is made smaller, when we can walk among the clouds.