Magical

I was three days into the Cradle Mountain Walk in Tasmania. The morning was cool and I was mesmerised by the rhythmic beat of footfall on the boardwalk, when I suddenly realised I was enmeshed in a thick pocket of fog. I couldn’t see the bush that had previously surrounded me and the sun was a vaporous dull glow overhead. The silence was disquieting when I had stopped to get my bearings. I felt as if I had entered Tolkein’s Murkwood.

It was at that point I noticed I was covered from head to toe with perfect beads of moisture. Beads the size of pin heads. They covered the backs of my hands, the hairs on my legs, my boot laces. They were everywhere.

As I was marvelling at the perfection of each water droplet, the sun seared through the mist and for a split second, I sparkled with fairy dust like Disneyworld's Tinkerbell. It was magical.

Sadly the touch of the sun's rays, the mist burnt away, the droplets vaporised and normal surroundings crystalised once again.

 

 

 

Done