Quenched

The rain came.

It started as soon as I got out of the car at the Barn yesterday afternoon. Just a speckle of drizzle at first. A tease after such a prolonged drought. Hardly a life-sustaining rainfall.

I immediately put a jar out on the little metal table in the garden and watched and waited. Not only did it fail to capture more than a drop or two of water, but the remainder of the day was so hot that the capture evaporated faster than it fell.

But then today, torrents. Driving back from a coffee run just now it rained so hard that I could hardly see the road ahead. As if one of Mother Nature’s workers has just got back from holiday and seen that all the buckets of water for Gloucestershire have stacked up in her absence (because she’d asked a colleague to keep on top of it but they were too busy with their own caseload to remember - we’ve all been there) and she has had to urgently get them all out at once.

I genuinely can understand the whole ritual-goat-slaying, sacrifice-to-the-gods thing now. Because I was so glad and grateful and relieved to see the curtain after curtain of voile being drawn across the hills that I wished I could express my gratitude somehow. I wonder if there is a vegan ritual option.

I also really wish I had brought my outdoor pillows inside last night.

I have always been romantic about rainy days. I’m that kind of sap. Of course I am, I voluntarily read poetry as a teenager. Heck I’ve even written poetry. Not often, mind. But you already know that I’m the kind of person who stops in the street during a Paris rainstorm to laugh at the soaking wetness of it. But it has been hot and dry for so, so long that this morning I couldn’t remember what one is supposed to do on a rainy day.

Do we really go outside in this?

And then I remembered that the first and most important thing, per my rainy day ritual, is to make a cup of Lapsang Souchong tea. I imagine any non-Brits reading this are immediately turned off. I understand.

Lapsang Souchong is a controversial tea, and not only because when one says the name aloud it inevitably sounds very un-PC, as if one is putting on an accent.

But no, its flavour is also deeply controversial. Because it tastes exactly like the the smell of wood smoke floating on the damp autumn air of the English countryside in October.

Ok, maybe that’s just me. I always have (and likely always will) associate the smell of stewing Lapsang with the Elletsons’ kitchen (the Elletsons are family friends, you don’t know them).

As I type it is still pouring. The sheep are galloping across the field to shelter under the hedgerows, shaking their huge suede-soft ears as they run.

Soft clothes! That is what’s missing, I realise, after half a cup of controversial tea.

Everyone calls it something different. ‘Jimjams’. ‘Comfy-cosies’. I’ve heard it all. Well, I’ve never heard anyone actually call it ‘loungewear’ but keep trying, fashion industry. The etymology of ‘soft clothes’ traces back to my friend Zara and her family, but I have long since adopted it as my own. Today’s soft ensemble: navy Uniqlo ‘Cotton Relaxed Ankle Trousers’ (and it isn’t just my ankles that are relaxed) and a boxy black t-shirt. In case of a further drop in temperature I’m keeping a sleeveless, calf-length knit cardigan from Zara close to hand.

That reminds me of another important aspect of the rainy day ritual: huddling for warmth. In my case only Leo and Bella are currently available but they both have obligingly wedged onto this wonky chaise with me to watch the drops racing down the glass. The itchy woollen blanket that mere days ago was baking on the grass is now covering my feet.

The hills in the distance have disappeared, taking with it the world beyond the field boundary. Whole villages are gradually being veiled as the rain rushes closer to us. The earth and I are drinking it in and are quenched.