Meteorological paradox.

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This morning’s Irish sky sparkled. Refulgence bathed my garden, its soft, warm light calling forth a joy of colourful blooms, all of them pink, purple, red or white. Birds sang and made the only sound I could hear. But beyond the bird twittering there was another sound. Intermittent blasts on foghorns boomed up from the harbour, something that only happens when visibility is seriously compromised by fog. This confused me somewhat given the cloudless sky all around me, and the harbour within sight of my back garden. But then I took a look down at the harbour from the kitchen window, and it wasn’t where it ought to have been. A thick blanket of fog was lying on top of the shore, running up the coast like a narrow ribbon of fluff. My wife was down beside the harbour and was astounded that she could not see the ferry that was no more than 50 metres from where she was walking. The rest of the town lay in sunshine; only the shore line was muffled in thick fog hence the basso profundo chorus of foghorns.