‘Fret’ is one of those interesting words with a number of very different meanings. There are the familiar definitions: to worry, both in terms of being worried, but also to ‘worry’ something else, the way a dog might worry a flock of sheep; the metal strips inlaid across the neck of certain types of stringed musical instruments; to adorn or form a pattern on, hence fretwork: the carving or cutting of panels of wood into elaborate shapes. But fret can also mean to eat, fray or corrode; agitate or ripple; an ornamental network (apparently, especially a medieval metallic or jewelled net for a woman’s headdress)…

And today I was reminded of a further meaning of the word as I headed out for a walk. The skies outside my window were a clear and piercing blue, but as I descended to the sea front, only about a mile away, the fog thickened until it enveloped everything in a white refractive glare. You see ‘fret’ is also the name for a particular kind of sea mist, one that Brighton is prone to during the spring and summer. It even has its own local name: the Shoreham Fret.

I’m sorry the word isn’t used much these days in this context, because the sound of the name is so perfect, encompassing the notion all at once of worrying the land, adorning it with tendrils of mist that curl across the ground, fraying the edges of things and dissolving all boundaries.