The lake before sunrise

I left the house a little after five. The forecast promised a clear night turning into a still morning, which is usually the recipe for fog over the lake, and for once the forecast was right.

By the time I set up on the old jetty, the far shore had simply gone. There was water, a soft grey wall, and the faint outline of the hills above it. Nothing moved except a pair of ducks who seemed to resent the company.

Fog is a strange thing to photograph. Your eyes adjust to it and keep finding detail; the camera does not. Most of my frames came out as flat grey rectangles. The ones that worked all had something dark close to the lens — a post, a reed, the edge of the jetty — to give the grey something to push against.

Around half past six the sun found a gap and the whole bank of fog turned a pale gold for about four minutes. I took three frames I like. Then it was simply morning, the fog lifted, and the coffee in my thermos had gone cold.