I was in Flanders this weekend, on a hill between Ypres and Poperinge.

At about 8.30am local time on Sunday (7.30am GMT), I went for a stroll alone. The morning was bitingly cold, with a fog bank enveloping the hill. The previous evenings' drizzle had frozen to the trees and grass. Towards France and the east, there was nothing but grey, with the dim shadows of a hedge, barely visible, even though it was only 30ft away.

I tried to imagine what it would have been like in 1914-1917, when the fog concealed advancing soldiers, the mist was tainted and bitter with gun smoke, and the only thing not frozen was the mud.

As I stood there, the sun broke through the fog and the world changed. Cobwebs were jewelled cloaks set solid and rose hips were icy blood drops hanging from the bough. To the west, across the fields and villages of Flanders, the red brick buildings glowed scarlet in the golden light and the green grass sparkled with frost and fire. To have such beauty before me after the grey, shapeless dawn..... pictures cannot do it justice.

I've read the original diaries of the Dorset Regiment who were part of that war, in those towns, across those fields. A great uncle fought and died in that mud, mist and frost. It never seemed so close and real as it did in that bitter morning fog.

At the going down of the sun, and in the morning.....

LTS