From the air the fog stretches like cobwebs between the hills and lakes of this country, divided into farm lots in the haphazard days before grids; twisting roads and properties outlined by dark trees. Small, oddly shaped farms as far as the eye can see, packed into a landscape, gaps only for the lakes and rivers; taken above by fog: in patches and—further north, where the rising sun hasn’t burned it off yet—in a great sea of white, and taken above that by a clear column of sky before the real clouds start.

Ireland, 40 shades of green, 4 of brown, and one of white, from above.