I had spent the afternoon surrounded by thick hill fog on the summit of Mynydd Mawr this winter, and the wind was bone chillingly cold. On the col between Mynydd Mawr and Moel Tryfan frozen lakes were surrounded by deceptively warm looking grasses, intensified further by the pinks and mauves up-lighting the low clouds over Nantlle. In reality everything was crunchilly icy and the grasses seemed like they would snap when you touched them, but amazingly, under the thick layer of pool ice, life was still surviving in the darkness.
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