Rolling mist
Bransdale
On the road from Helmsley on the North Yorkshire Moors dropping into Bransdale past Breck House Farm the mist or low cloud suddenly rolled in over the dying purple embers of the heather clad moor. Though the day had been sunny and quite oppressive I was not expecting such a change
It reminded me of the song Mull of Kintyre
Oh mist rolling in from the sea,
My desire is always to be here
Oh mull of kintyre
Far have i traveled and much have i seen
Dark distant mountains with valleys of green.
Past painted deserts the sunset's on fire
As he carries me home to the mull of kintyre.
Rolling mist
Bransdale
On the road from Helmsley on the North Yorkshire Moors dropping into Bransdale past Breck House Farm the mist or low cloud suddenly rolled in over the dying purple embers of the heather clad moor. Though the day had been sunny and quite oppressive I was not expecting such a change
It reminded me of the song Mull of Kintyre
Oh mist rolling in from the sea,
My desire is always to be here
Oh mull of kintyre
Far have i traveled and much have i seen
Dark distant mountains with valleys of green.
Past painted deserts the sunset's on fire
As he carries me home to the mull of kintyre.