A rainy morning in Dorset

Halfway up the hill, the heavens open. 

Should I stay or should I go? Should I walk back home or climb up to the summit of Bluebell Hill as planned?

It's a field-and-a-bit to the shelter of the wood beyond the time portal gate. It's half-past seven in the morning and Mr Grigg is doing a shift at the community shop. He won't be back until ten o'clock.

I stand in the middle of the field in the pouring rain and think to myself, well, I can't get any wetter. The rain has soaked through the shoulders of my coat and is running down the inside of my sleeves. I've got a hole in my left boot, despite having bought them only about six months ago. I don't have much luck with wellies. They don't make them like they used to.

I figure I'm going to get as wet going down the hill as if I go up so I plod on through the mud and aim for the gate.

Arty shoots on ahead, looking for pheasants to torment, and I trudge on regardless, my woolly hat pulled down over my head like Benny from Crossroads.

The beech trees are a-rustling and swaying and the birds have stopped singing. Arty comes laughing around me, looking for treats now that she's come to the whistle. We do a circuit of the hill, me marching like a Roman, and then back down again now the rain has cleared.

Partway down, the rain revisits us. It's relentless and totally disregards my already sodden state.

On the road, the cars don't even slow down, slooshing up the surface water to give us another soaking. Thanks.

Back home, Arty is zipped into her microfibre doggy bag while I have a warm shower.


And so my day begins.

That's about it.

Love Maddie x


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