Up on the Mounth all the peaks are covered in a thick cloud which falls as fog in the great voids between, collecting in pockets, pouring like milk into water with a beauty so mesmerizing it conceals the danger. With a change of wind I’m surrounded by a growing, silent opacity, the corrie floor below lost. The only thing to do in these conditions is to keep moving, steadily down, until once again I’m below the cloud.
Chris Kemp 