Winter morning, and fog folds soft and deep upon the town of Laugharne, Wales. From the old farm at Delacorse no view at all of the River Taf. Smoke climbs mightily from chimneys. Beneath the castle walls, surrounded by tufts of dew-heavy grass, come chalky chirps and bright tweets of waking birds. Somewhere, the bark of a dog.
Fog floats as sun strikes, Sir John's Hill lingering in the near distance like a tanker on a shrouded sea. The estuary emerges, too, quaking in its eternally shifting state. A rowboat waits.
In the town, street lamps glow barely.