“What time is it, dear?”

My wife looks up from her book.  “Oh, about 10, I think.”

“Hmmm,” I reply.  “Have you seen the mist on the lake?”


“It’s not normally still here by this time.  The sun burns it away.”  I hear a click as she turns the page on her Kindle.  I shove my chair away from the table, scraping it loudly on the terracotta-tiled floor.  “I’m going to have a look.”

Fran, my youngest daughter, a bouncy fourteen year old, enters the room. “Whachadoin' Dad?”

“Morning, Fran.  I was just about to investigate the mist on the lake.”

She looks a bit puzzled then looks at the lake. “Oh… hey … mist on the lake!  I never saw that before.”

I sigh.  We’ve been here a week already.  Why are these kids so unobservant?

“Well,” I say, beckoning.  “You coming?”

She shakes her head.  “Nah, gonna see what’s on telly.”

“OK, then.”  I slide open the glass door of our dining room, glance over at the swimming pool which tinkles gently, resting from the week’s onslaught by our family, and start to walk the hundred or so yards to the lake. The sun shines hotly on my back.

I reach the lake