On Romney Marsh

Some Fogs can stop time. Not the weak, pusillanimous mists that retreat as you advance - I'm talking about honest to God fogs that push up close to you and breath in your face like a drunken bully; the ones that can hide a house or a precipice.

I was cycling along a narrow road on Romney Marsh in the south of England late one night when a thick fog rolled in off the sea. One moment I could see the lights of St Mary's Bay in the near distance and my lights lit up the road far ahead. The next moment I was surrounded by a wall of thick fog and my lights only lit up more fog.

I was at a scenic turnout so I rode in carefully, guided by a weak light over a public restroom. I sat on a low wall with no idea if there was a two foot or two thousand foot drop on the far side. The weak light cast my shadow onto the fog. You shouldn't be able to cast a shadow onto air - it's not natural.

I had a cheese and onion bap in my saddle bag which I took out. For those of you who aren't familiar, a bap is a soft roll. A cheese and onion bap is a bap with butter, a slice of sharp cheddar, and a thin slice of onion. It's not grilled or fried onion - it's as raw as the day it was dug up. "Pungent" describes it well. I had chosen it because it was the absolutely cheapest sandwich they had in the store.

Once the unwrapping stopped, I heard a dismal groan coming from the marsh. It sounded like a trapped animal, crying in pain; or perhaps a lost soul warning against wandering the marsh in the fog. It was a herring gull, resting on top of the restroom. It had probably been attracted by the light and was waiting impatiently for the fog to lift. Perhaps I had startled it, or perhaps it smelled my bap.

The fog was swirling through the air and made patterns around the light. The restroom walls were covered in water drops that ran down, leaving streaks. The fog was condensing on the cold metal frame of my bicycle and dripping onto the ground. It was soaking into the leather and terry-cloth of my gloves and the lycra of my shorts. I was wearing a waterproof vest but the waterlogged air just crept underneath and soaked my cycling jersey.

The water condensing on my helmet dripped down my neck. Everything was cold and wet. It was not pleasant.

So there I sat; bap in hand, onion on breath, cold and wet, illuminated by a fog-haloed light, sharing a moment with a seagull. I have no idea how long we were there. Fog can do that.