As Graham and I set about our morning tasks of feeding animals and picking vegetables for the stall, the fog hangs thickly over the islands. The air is heavy, dense and soporific and sounds are padded as if bouncing off a sponge. Pigeons and gulls thrum around me, their wings pushing air as they lift off from the oat fields; invisible, grey against grey.
The mist is so thick the sea can hardly be seen from the banks of rush and wild carrot. Rocks become mystical beasts and magical lands of adventure.
The first sense of autumnal weather tingles the blood. I love this change in season; when the heat and summer toil begin to soften into the dew-lined, spider-spun mornings of autumn.
As we walk across the island, little bursts of colour and pattern catch my eye. White agapanthus and flame-fired montbretia, wild fennel decorated in liquid crystals and wonderous webs of beauty.
The island seems quiet and sleepy, cushioned in the fog, as if we are wrapped in a silk cocoon.
A while later Martha and I head to Great Par for a swim, my thoughts turning again to the shipwrecks of old and the lives of island rescuers in years gone by. However, Martha soon pulls me from day dreaming, back into the world of play, as she and I splash our way out into the cool glassy sea.
Sand gobies dart about our feet and a crab scuttles past, eager to escape our shadowy presence. We both dive and tumble turn, blowing bubbles as we spin and swirl. Giggling and splashing, laughing at how underwater our faces become squidgy and squashed by our goggles.
Both pretending to be mermaids; hair straggled like seaweed, legs thrashing like silver-scaled tails. My heart swells with how lucky and thankful we are to live here and have these wonderful moments of wild freedom, natural space and time for playing in the fog.