Its that time of year again, when the Fen wakes misty in the morning, pale, golden, warm or cold it is never the same. The subtle shades of wetland mist are far more complex than those of the dry, rolling counties. In these mists lurk tales of malaria, miasmas and murder. The ditches are as full of mystery as they are water, in the dead of Winter, shrouded in heavy fog many a man has lost his way and slipped silently into the blackness. Do not stray from the pathways in the dark, tread confidently on the high ground and hurry home to the warm fire and the light.
