This time it wasn't just that it was getting dark at two-thirty in the afternoon; it felt as if the day hadn't got light at all.
Just a rim on the horizon.
Up on the bank beyond the canal, the abandoned hulks that form the bulwark between it and the Severn were diving not into the waving grass of summer with its foamy seeds, but mud.
It was all very dreichy.
The tide was racing in and had already covered the wrecks of the tankers Arkendale and Wastdale, which struck and destroyed the Severn Railway Bridge one foggy night in 1960, with tragic consequences.
A good reason for Son the Younger, whose first visit it was, to come back another day.
I'd like to come back again on a bright winter's morning in frost.