The mist at 5 am shrouded valley and hill, clung to the streelights on the motorway, and closed down the wide African horizon to a parochial boundary.
The air in my nostrils was luke warm and laden with moisture, and my newly-regained hearing picked up nothing past the sound of the engine but an awed hush.
All my senses engaged in telling my brain that I was back in England, or at least the British Isles-land of my youth, land of three-quarters of my ancestors.
I know at least one other South African Pagan who is feeling this year the double tides of Beltane and Samhain. The veil seems exceptionally thin, and magics little and big are happening all around me.
You must know that here on the Highveld, our rainfall pattern is usually dramatic- a long hot day in which thunderclouds build up gradually on the horizon to release their energy in a storm both joyous and terrifying is how a day in November is supposed to go.
Instead,this year, we wake up on Beltane morn in Britain.
Earlier this year I celebrated Samhain by calling to the Ancestors of flesh and of spirit; this morning the ancestors of my very particular DNA are calling back to me so strongly that I have but to open my heart: "Speak".
Signs or omens would be totally superfluous at this stage. A Very Big Magic has been wrought here this morning, and I'm enjoying the warm and happy company of my forebears.