Irish Wetlands

The air hangs heavy and damp, thick with a grey mist that clings to the ancient trees. Gnarled oaks and ash, their branches draped with emerald moss, loom out of the swirling fog. Waterlogged ground sucks softly underfoot, the scent of peat and decaying leaves mingling with the cool, wet air. Visibility is low; only a few feet ahead, the forest floor disappearing into the grey. The silence is profound, broken only by the occasional drip of water from the branches and the distant call of a curlew, swallowed by the fog. It feels like a place lost in time, a realm of shadows and secrets.