Mistical Berrow

There was mist in Bristol first thing this morning, but the sun soon burnt it off and it promised to be hot hot hot. After a weekend spent stewing over an arts funding census return - well, at least the Northerner did, I just lay about watching old episodes of Game of Thrones - we decided to have a looooong lunch break and head for Berrow beach.

When we got there, I thought at first that someone had set fire to the golf course and smoke was drifting across the sand, but it was residual mist. 

The tide was very low so we made our way towards the wreck of the Nornen, which was its usual atmospheric self. 

All the while, it was getting mistier, which was strange as the sun was blisteringly hot (well, 31◦C, which is warm for this miserable little rock in the sea). 

There was a definite demarcation along the tideline, with the mist clinging to the damp sand and mud. Liminal, we thought, poetically. 

A beach patrol van drove over to us to see if we were OK and safely above the mudline. We were, but as the tide was due to start racing back in and it was getting quite difficult to tell which way was upside down, left to right or back to front, we decided it was probably best to head home, stopping on the way to give a hot and bothered Ted a drink from the tap in the churchyard. 

Sometimes four hours away from the screen can feel like a whole holiday.