More new words on moving north. ‘Haar’ for the sudden wall of fog that sweeps in unbidden off the North Sea. ‘Smirr’ for what I can only describe as a hybrid of mist and fine drizzle. But I haven’t been taught the word for the low-lying mist that skims the surface of lochs on rare mornings (rare for this photographer anyway).
Magic is the only word for it – there is a transience to these mists as they veil the water’s surface. Looking through the viewfinder, they’re like visual graphic equalisers; fine-tuning between settings from transparent to opaque. They obscure and reveal – offering elusive sculptural glimpses between clicks of the shutter-button.
