Wrapped in enough layers to keep me warm and dry but not too many so I can not bend or kneel, I went off to work early doors this morning.
There is a sharp metallic tang to the air and a bite in the temperature. Tiny airborne raindrops swirl around, dampening my fringe and making my glasses mist up. And that furry idiot I call my dog is in such a good mood that she is being delightfully annoying!
The village hill (not actually ours but a very prominent backdrop to our lives) is hidden beneath a thick duvet of low cloud which is promising to do more than just linger. The weather forecast confirm the same.
Walkers and farmers pass by, some just nodding a brief greeting others stopping to chat so gardening is gently put on hold until I can return to the mud. It is that time of year, when the garden is having her last hurrah before slumping down to sleep where roses still have buds, honeysuckle blossom still smells sweet, geums still nod their brightly orangey red Mrs Bradshaw heads and weeds still cheerfully grow faster than I can remove them out from the cracks in the old cobbled courtyard.
It is only when I notice the compost wheelie bin is almost filled to the brim that I realise the hill behind has completely vanished and the loitering clouds are now releasing sheets of rain across the moor not far from where I am working.
Time to get moving. Making sure everything is left tidy and a dilly dog is rounded up along with my muddy tools, we leave and head home.
Just in time it seems.
Time for a mug or two of tea then a shower for all concerned. Hope your Wednesday is a little drier than mine 😊🐕🌱
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