When the mists roll in to take us on a journey through a land newly imagined, we’re like a child seeking to escape a dream, only to be pulled further into the mesmerising story. A wonderland of twisted trees and dancing branches, of shapes materialising only to be swallowed again in the mysterious white gauze.

The landscape we see every day has changed and we follow a path into the unknown where sounds are muted, distorted. The cawing of a pheasant is now a witches cackle, the sheep we’d not known stood next to us, have grown in the fog, look different, big bellied and long-eared.

The sun teases with a glimpse from drawn curtains only to pull them the tighter as we err through the dreamscape’s ever-changing twists and turns, losing ourselves in a land we can claim for ourselves in the absence of other people. When we think we’ve found the way home through a gnarled Hawthornes framed doorway, the bark and stems turn into a scorcher’s long-fingered hands leading us further astray.