Mist Magic
during an autumnal misty walk, magic can graze your cheek
Dear word explorer,
Yesterday evening, those of us on the West Coast of Ireland experienced our first full-on misty evening of the season. We’ve been having a mild November so far, and as a lover of a snazzy scarf/hat/glove ensemble, I’ve been yearning for chilly days.
I walked into the shopping centre to mooch about and buy a couple of plastic storage crates, and when I walked out it was like this:
As a lover of Gothic atmospheres I was delighted.
I had to return to the supermarket for a few groceries but upon my exit the haze had vanished! It was as if the crew on a film production had turned off the fog machine because they’d shot the moment where the monster shambles out from the shadows to snatch away a disreputable youth (no doubt vaping or bullying a kind-hearted kid).
During the dark drive to my house in the countryside the mist crept back in, filling the hill dips and lurking near the dying hedges.
This morning I woke to an obscured world. The mist had taken over, softening edges, muting colour, and dissolving distant views. The temperature had not dropped badly, but a damp cold seeped into the house, requiring a blast of central heating in defence. The mist did not care, it lingered, resolute.
On a day like this I most enjoy going to the woods, so I did.
By the time I ventured out into the grey it was afternoon, and the vanquished sun had little time left in the sky. Not that I’d know. Familiar routes were mist-tattered and distorted. Distance and time overlapped.
I drove to my favourite location — Coole Park — pleased to note the near-empty car park. A little group of American tourists, speaking so loudly I could hear every word of their conversation, drifted past but disappeared out of earshot quickly. It was a jarring disconnect. The world was naturally hushed, and even the birds were less spirited. If I had been with a friend I know we would have spoken in quiet tones, matching the subdued mood of the area.
Short on time, and with other errands to run, I stuck to a short loop, breathing in moisture and the smell of decay. A mist brings up tones of the orange and yellow leftovers teetering on the trees or heaped upon the ground. It is a gentler, evocative filter.
During the iron heart of winter a freezing fog is severe. Black bare branches hang still against stark white backgrounds. Your breath materialises through numb lips. It is difficult to smile even at its minimalist glory.
During my walk I was reminded why the mist or fog is beloved of supernatural stories and disturbing yarns, for it reveals the invisible. Under its damp spell, the busy work of spiders becomes obvious. Delicate dew bejewelled cobwebs arc over shrubs and posts like early holiday decorations. Spiky holly bushes, with their winter gloss and early scarlet berries, are softened by fragile milky webs.
Photographing them with my smart phone isn’t easy for it constantly focuses on the wrong thing. Mist and fog photographs are rarely accurate to the experience of the human. You marvel at the scene and then gaze down at your screen, which has ‘helpfully’ rendered it clearer with clever calculations. You must fiddle with the settings before or after.
No image can evoke the mystery of the listening woods, soaked in mist.
It is no wonder that we find it eerie, for it reminds us how our perspective is dominated by our filter. With unfocused eyes you can perceive movement in the whorls of mist. Sound is both muffled yet oddly displaced.
It is a porous period. It is easy to imagine other entities, mostly oblivious to our world of facts and figures, taking notice during this spectral moment of our bumbling interlude in their realm. The mist morphs space for all those who occupy it.
They can press up to our cheeks, touch our hair, and gleam into our eyes while we frown at the chill and the moisture filming our faces.
I noticed the odd clump of blackened leaves long before I drew close. They hung from a branch clear of all other foliage, and in the distance it was a sharp shape against a wall of grey.
When I approached it was both less weird and stranger.
A witchy clump, dangling over the people who dared to cross its path.
What would happen when the joggers and dog walkers passed under?
Would sprites ride cobweb tendrils attached to human coats all the way back to their homes? Would frogs begin to flop over their thresholds? Would trinkets begin to move about the house? Would the people suddenly be possessed of a cute notion to build a nook for otherworldly kin?1
The mist evokes magic, and sometimes it follows you home.
The swans at Coole are famous, thanks to a poem by Willam Butler Yeats. They are Whooper Swans, which pause in their migration every autumn at the turlough at Coole on their way to Iceland.
I see them regularly, but it’s a wonder every time. I love that I am connected to that great Magician/Poet by this annual avian journey. When I stand and marvel at their consistency I imagine occupying the same space as Yeats once did. In the mist, it seems possible that I could spy his echo, and watch him write a note, and push his glasses up his nose in concentration.
I heard the swans’ honking through the trees before I saw them, a plaintive noise I thought, but when I spotted their celestial white shapes, blazing through the mist, bobbing causally, I realised they were sleepily bugling to each other, offering Good Nights in the style of the Walton family.
A great journey lies before them and they know to gather their strength. No checking on passports, worrying about air traffic control strikes, or stormy weather. They fly on instinct, and adapt to what happens.
As I returned to my car I thought about how the autumn warns us of the need to slow down and prepare for the coming dark retreat.
We will hang lights soon, to brighten our long nights, and I always welcome their cheer.
But I love a long amble through mist-addled woods, with no conversation or podcast or music to distract me from its subtle messages.
Right now, wrapped in its shining saturated shroud, the magic of nature is at its most potent, and available to us.
Keep your ‘fairy houses’ outside the main home is my opinion on this score.
Both your words and your photos are so beautiful, Maura, and always so meaningful ❤️
I really liked your photos in this one!