We have all known that rain is coming.
“Lovely day!” we greeted each other yesterday at Cream Teas on the Green, shading our eyes against the bright glare of sunshine
“Rain coming,” came the reply.
We didn’t linger long, hastening back to cut the long grass in the wild flower garden while it is still erect, before rain beats it into limp submission.
When we took Hoover out for her night walk we heard tractors roaring into the darkenss, their headlights swinging arcs of brilliance across the hills as they turned for the next long trawl.
This morning we woke to the throaty song of their engines and they were still at it as we set out for our morning walk.
Heavy skies hung low over our heads as we hurried down the track, warm air straining to hold the rain in check .
“Come on, my Hoover. No ambling today.” Fields of wheat and oats were stripped in rows, harvesters racing each other, racing the weather that loomed over us. As we climbed the next hill Hoover spotted new walls that needed investigation. Others had taken shelter in their lee over night, but no sign of the deer was to be found.
At the top of the next field ploughing had started. We hurried on, Hoover keeping close, her confidence eroded by unaccustomed noise of activity. A new strange noise that sounds as if the field is being stretched beckons us to make a closer inspection.
Bales were being grabbed and twirled into waterproof coats by a vast spider that spat them back onto the cropped grass. Hoover didn’t approve and thought about barking at the tractor, but we turned to take a different route and her bark subsided into an embarrassed wuf.
As we reached the top of the path behind the church our route through the wheat field was cut off by the passing harvester which roared fiercely in the corner of the field, circling a lone oak, leaving chaff in its wake. Hoover sniffed at the path in recognition, confused by the change in appearance.
“Never mind!” I cheer her as I feel the first drops that can no longer refuse to fall. No sooner are we home than rain cascades down, hammering furiously on the roof, streaking the windows as if we live behind a waterfall.
“We made it, Hooves,” She grins back at me and I take the hint and find her a biscuit.
Later, when it has eased a bit, we go to visit a neighbour. I am painting the scenery for the pantomime this year and the script has just been written. As we scrurry through drizzle my attention is caught by a jewelled hedge.
It turns out the we will have a palace, a cottage and a forest. Time to sort out my brushes.