It explodes into sulphate spume, coughed up from deep within some rock-bound heaving molten mass. Watch it dissolve into the air, falling as rain to wet the rusted ground. The bubbling waters surrounding the blow-hole draw a brief laced-veil across the catacomb beneath as we gather round once more. There she blows!
The earth cannot contain it. Vapoury ghosts trail the roads, seeking out the weak points to puncture hillside and bog alike. In places it drags the sky down, forms evil-smelling curdled pools of copper-blue. And everywhere, the thick paste-like mud cakes our boots, reminding us we stand on no more than feet of clay.
It is here in the mist, too. Flitting across the landscape, drawing near to silence our steps as it dances around us only to disappear as fast it came. In the mist our tour-bus climbs in the watery light of passing head-lights.
Where are we going ... in time?
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