Fogbound

Once more the harbour is encased in thick fog, and this morning as we walked Mollie round the castle, looking out over the bay, the mist drifted like smoke, revealing pink studs where the thrift grows. As we walked, figures loomed out of the fog like the beginning of the David Lean version of Great Expectations. You know the one I mean, where Madgwick is in the graveyard? Always makes me jump, every time.

The delicate summer scent of the dog roses greeted us as we turned the corner and made me wonder why such a beautiful, fragile flower is called a dog rose. I mean, I love dogs, but no way does that rose look like a dog. Who thought up these names? Having said that, I can't think of anything that would particularly suit its delicacy. Spring rose is unimaginative, and inaccurate, though it's too early for summer. Mother of Pearl rose? Better but not entirely accurate, either. Blushing rose? For me that's better - sums up its shy naivety. Any other ideas?

I spent part of this morning with a friend who's survived bowel cancer and is in rude health (I do like that phrase) considering that not long ago she was given 30% chance of survival. Then this afternoon I spent walking with my Swedish friend who's got through breast cancer, twice. These women and their positive attitude to life is an example to us all and I am proud to have such friends. Apart from their strength, both possess an excellent sense of humour (necessary when dealing with me) and a love of dogs (ditto). We got back from the walk covered in mud (don't ask) and soaking wet. But happy. Just like the dog.