There was one specific day early Summer, I believe it was 1958; I was on the top deck of a double decker; it was so misty, it was like a bag but it was that swirly white that glowed, something like the drawing madness at Beachy head, as the bus rose above Marazion (no not flying) we emerged into a glistening glaring whiteness and looking back to Mount s bay, it was a sheet of white cotton. There was the upper third of The Mount standing forth like some knight s steed, flying across the heavens, and in the middle of the sea was a great and glorious swirl of, what can be best described as, an egg made of mist; it looked so wierd so ethereal; it is an image I carry in my head; one day I will regain my artist and make a painting of it all.
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