Sunday, 3 August 2014

August in England

What an August day. It was as gloomy as November from morning 'til mid afternoon when sun returned hot and stinging through dustless air to be replaced within two hours by a rolling thunder review, middling heavy rain and forks of enlightenment. But that was five minutes ago and now the rain has stopped though it still rushes along gullies and whooshes over grids blocked years ago by neglectful privatised so-called maintenance.

And next day put me in mind of Blaenau Ffestiniog in the rain. Blaenau Ffestiniog where clouds are low and no less black than its broken-backed slate heaps, and in the corner of your eye whole mountains wait to slide and swerve down to sea level propelled by vast fountains of gloom, the frightful might of Snowdonia, and a general god awful grimness. Blaenau Ffestioniog where there are no spaces between raindrops and the only light available glints across the slab-staggering ground dimly reflecting from one sharp angle to the next.

Excepting the mid Atlantic, there is nowhere wetter in the world.

And so I reminded myself this morning when looking out on a sodding wet Lancashire.

Mood music: