It’s been July in September this year with rare autumn heat, humidity and that familiar Island friend that comes around when warm, sticky air meets cool water: fog.

Dense fog blankets fields and shorelines every morning and late evening, softening edges in the natural world and captivating photographers with its ethereal beauty. Like something straight out of Harry Potter, it is an invisibility cloak for derby fishermen.

On the north shore, the foghorns send out their mournful notes, warning mariners and stirring memories of a season spent in a tiny cottage near the shore many moons ago.

Indoors, everything is damp: clothes, bed linens, cereal.

Crisp fall days lie ahead, forecasters say.

Until then, let the foghorns blow.