Woke to land drawn in, horizons shortened and blurred. The air was white, damp and bitter cold. We had left bedroom windows open through the night and woke to find our glasses of water chilled to perfection. We are on a peninsula on a peninsula; surrounded by mountains and sea, so a thick fret is not a surprise. This arm of land would reach out to Nova Scotia and if it was careless as it did so it may knock its elbow on Greenland. The cold falls from the mountains, the moisture up from the sea, the ghosts and tales from the people. It brings disorientation and inward looking, or simply reflection.
Later, under the fret burning sun, we passed mountains the colour of metal left out too long in weather. And parked under a hill the shape of a prone razorback boar.