We arrived late on a Friday with no itinerary beyond the address of a stone cottage and a promise to each other not to open a map unless we were actually lost.
Saturday began in fog so thick the hills behind the house simply did not exist. By ten it lifted in slow sheets and the whole valley appeared at once, green and wet and absurdly close.
Following the weather
We walked where the cloud was thinnest. We ate lunch on a wall. We sat in the car through one hard shower and watched it move across the hillside like a curtain being drawn.
On Sunday we drove home tired and quiet. Neither of us could have told you the names of the places we had been, and neither of us minded.