It may be a cultural stereotype, but it is true that there is, if you live in the UK, always plenty to be said (or written) about the weather!
It was one of those days. Even now, at midday, the winter
sun was struggling to make its presence felt through a thick blanket of
monotonous grey. The dark mass was insufficiently distinguishable to merit the
name clouds but didn’t quite justify being called fog either. It wasn’t raining
as such, but the dampness in the air seeped through even the most waterproof of
layers leaving him drenched without really knowing how. The bitter wind which whipped
across his face stung a painful redness into his cheeks. It was one of those
days ... and it perfectly matched his mood.
There is nothing quite like a thunder storm on a summer
evening. Most people hide inside when they see them coming: but she was not “most
people”. And so it was that at the first crash, she ran outside, tipping back
her face to catch the rain drops. She breathed deeply, filling her lungs with
the scent of freshness. Smiling, she imagined the neighbours peering out from
behind their floral curtains. She didn’t care. The sight, the sound, the smell,
the touch, the taste of it: this, more than almost anything else, reminded her
that she was still fully alive.
When she stepped barefoot into it, the lawn was still wet
with dew which sparkled and glistened beneath the rising sun; but the sky
already held the promise of a balmy heat which would envelop the later part of
the day. There was a near-silence at this hour, too, which would evaporate as
quickly as the dew drops on the lush blades tickling her feet. Even the birds
seemed to call to each other in more muted tones. She would be happy enough,
later, to join in the garden’s endless social whirl. On balance, though, she
preferred it like this.
A blizzard had swirled constantly around their mountain home
for the past three days making it impossible to so much as step out of the
door. As soon as she woke this morning, though, she could sense something had
changed. The air held a hushed stillness, pregnant with promise. She leaped out
of bed, silently grateful to the inventor of under-floor heating, and ran to draw
back the curtains. Through intricate frost patterns she gazed out at a magical Christmas
card landscape. The sun had broken through the clouds at last, and the whole
world sparkled and glittered beneath it.
Outside the window, the early morning frost sparkled on the
bare branches. He would go out soon, making the most of these few precious
hours of sunlight. Hanging low in the deep-blue sky, the autumn sun’s rays crept
through the woodland canopy creating a dappled light beneath. Sheltered from
the autumn rains, the rusty leaves here were brittle and offered a satisfying
crunch beneath his feet. Later, he would curl up by an open fire with a
slightly battered copy of a favourite book, hot buttered teacakes and a large mug
of steaming tea. This was autumn at its best.
* If this post makes no sense, read this one for some context: http://stepsadventures.blogspot.co.uk/2017/07/a-story-project.html
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