This evening is just the sort to persuade my spirit to go
off in search of Avalon again. We in the Shire are sinking into a warm, misty twilight, with a light
drizzle gracing the balmy air and the perception of magic whispering quietly to a world standing still.
My mind is finely tuned to such an evening. The sight of the trees and fields and hedgerows
and copses and the high ground stretching beyond the river valley, all washed into ever
more seductively mysterious half tones, speaks of the mystical side of Arthurian mythology.
And the question which has to be asked is whether I really do catch a glimpse of
another world in the mist, or whether I’m deluding myself with childish
fantasy.
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