Everywhere was wet after yesterday’s rain. Puddles fringed the roads and paths. Slugs and snails frisk happily and slimily about the garden, munching up my vegetables, blissfully unaware of the doom that is lying in store in the garden shed.
Hoover and I set out briskly, stepping over the wet straw abandoned by the harvesters as they fled the downpour. Today the hills are quiet, I cannot see another living soul. At the top of the steep path behind the church we pause and look back over the village. Everything is still. Even the clouds hang stationary over us, dark and rain laden. A sudden crack, somewhere out of sight in the grey, sends down a shaft of light, a pool of brilliance, beyond the houses that climb the far side of the valley.
But not on us.
As we turn to head on we see what is coming our way. The clouds are rolling back, thrown off like the morning bed covers when it is time to start the day.