FOG IN A PLACE OF REST
Even though the company had been boisterous the pub lacked any sort of empathy so after a couple of stiff ultra-dry martinis, probably the worst drink considering my problems, I slipped away with the intention of walking the couple of miles home. Craving the panacea of a few deep lungs full of salty ozone filled air, as usual, I took the scenic route hoping the great view would lift my spirits. Climbing the cliff path and struggling for breath I stopped to rest at the highest point on the slats of Garath Dobb’s bench. It had been a while since I’d taken this route so I had no idea who the guy was or anything about him but I did notice the absence of Verdigris on the copper plaque screwed onto the pristine varnish of the back support. Maybe a hundred yards offshore the silhouette of the car ferry slowly ploughed through flat waters, barely visible with the sun a mere lighter outline h...