Haar - an explanation

It occurs to me that the previous post may require some explanation, especially the reason why I am so drawn to it.

Haar is a Scottish term for sea fog. Much of Scotland is close to the sea. Much of Scotland is cold and damp. The haar rolls in during most seasons, a dull whitish blanket that deadens and dampens and folds all visibility into a tight wad. Audibility, too, is lost as the haar creeps into the ears, clogging the tiny cilia that would normally vibrate to the merest of sound.

The man intoning on the website referred to in my previous post is describing the haar as it sweeps across the harbor and then inland in northeastern Scotland. His voice is as cold and chill as the fog. He speaks to me in my home tongue. I hear the bleak tones, the plain words burred by damp. He tells of a dwindling fishing fleet, of creaking boats, of seagulls vanishing into "the whiteness." The "bones of the land falling into the sea" as the lighthouse, "unmanned for a year," scours the edges of the fog, booming a solitary siren.

The chill he describes enters your bones. It silences you. It draws you into it, as surely as you are part of the earth. There is no time, no space. Only you. In the haar. Alone.

Yet in the morning, as the fog recedes in the cool sun, there arises a sparkle in the air that is energizing and enlivening. Chill solemnity is replaced with a vigor and zest for life that returns the blood to your legs and feet. The sea dances with light, the flowers shake their petals, and the blades of grass bend in the breeze.

Ah, Scotland the Brave indeed.