The weekend arrives beneath a soft percussion of rain, tapping gently against the windows as though trying to rouse me with its persistent song. The day is damp, heavy, and cold—but it is mine. A single day of stillness carved from a working week, which I refuse to surrender to the weather.
Not wanting to repeat last weekend’s battle with damp clothes against skin, I carry my umbrella this morning. It isn't always easy to walk beneath its shelter—the trails are often too narrow and tangled for such awkward protection—but there is a certain sweetness in the sound of raindrops drumming on the nylon. It reminds me of nights spent wild-camping in the Peak District, tucked up inside my tent while the storms whispered and roared across the ridgelines. Even now, in the quiet of a simple morning, that sound stirs something deep and familiar.
A flock of seagulls stand gathered on the field beside the lane, feathers ruffled, bodies still. Carys drops into her instinctive crouch the moment she sees them—head low, tail straight, eyes locked with the fierce concentration passed down from generations of working dogs. Her whole body becomes purpose. But the field is a swamp today, waterlogged, muddy and slippery, and encouraging her to sprint would be inviting trouble. She may adore splashing about in the river, but baths at home are an entirely different matter—tolerated, endured, never celebrated. A muddy return is written into the script of this morning, but we’ll at least try to keep its reach gentle, not overwhelming. I call her off with a soft voice, and she obeys with only a hint of longing.
The week has been a gallery of seasons—one morning arrives wrapped in frost, the next glowing with soft sunlight, and then—without warning—the rain returns in a sweeping curtain, stitching the land together with silver threads. Most people complain about the weather’s restlessness, but I never have. Rain has always awakened something in me. The heavier it falls, the more alive I feel, as though each drop reconnects me to the world, grounding me in its wild, ancient rhythms.
We cross the meadow, pass through the woodland and enter the nature reserve. Only the most faithful walkers roam the trails today; everyone else has stayed behind warm walls and steamed windows. The birds, however, remain and lift their voices in a jubilant chorus—sparrows, robins, finches—hidden in brambles and hedgerows, singing as though the world were sun-lit summer rather than waterlogged winter.
Their music joins the soft patter of rain on my umbrella, the rustle of Carys moving through long grass, the quiet squelch of my boots pressing into the sodden earth. It becomes a kind of walking symphony, delicate and unhurried.
A single magpie glides across the path ahead, wings outstretched like an ink stroke against the grey. It pauses on a branch and regards me with bright curiosity. For a moment, it feels like a greeting—a nod of recognition between travellers. I offer a small smile in return.
The pond is swollen beyond its usual borders, flooding the paths beneath the trees. The water is alive with motion: ducks paddling proudly, geese calling across the surface, moorhens skimming the edges, swans gliding like quiet royalty, and even a grey heron standing solemnly in the shallows. Rainy days do not deter them; they thrive in this watery world.
I stop beneath dripping branches and watch rain scatter across the water’s surface. Concentric circles bloom and fade, overlapping like fleeting memories. The stillness becomes mesmerising—tranquil and rhythmic.
Two hours pass, and the rain has never once relented. It is one of those mornings that feels suspended in time—unchanged in colour, in sound, in mood—despite the steady march of the clock. These are the days that separate fair-weather walkers from those who love the land in all its moods.
We move along a narrow trail flanked by blackberry and hawthorn. Carys slips through with effortless grace, but I must slow, placing each step with care so as not to snag a sleeve or tear my jacket on the barbs that guard the path. Even the smallest thorn can slice like a whispered threat.
Joining the farm lane, I spot a woman leading her horse on foot. The magnificent creature watches us carefully, ears flicking, muscles shifting beneath a rain-darkened coat. They move with purpose toward the promise of a warm, dry stable. We slow our pace, giving them gentle space.
The rowan trees lining the lane appear paler today—last week bright with red berries, now stripped by wind, frost, and hungry birds. Only a few clusters remain, clinging like tiny rubies to bare branches. Winter has already begun its work.
Carys walks beside me with a satisfied heaviness in her step, her earlier energy softened by miles and weather. Her raincoat has protected her well, but her legs and belly tell the true story of the morning: deep puddles, muddy trails, and dark grey skies. She looks content—more content than any indoor morning could ever make her.
There is a quiet wisdom in days like this—days where the world does not disguise its moods, where we must step outside to meet the weather as it is and find our way within it. Rain teaches patience. Mud teaches humility. Stillness teaches presence. And somewhere between the drops, the silence, and the soft rhythm of our steps, I am reminded that beauty lives here too, in the grey and the drenched and the ordinary—waiting for those willing to walk out and embrace it.
Visitor Comments
This is such a lovely post. I love the Mr. Magpie sketch.
Just beautiful.Lisa - Chesterfield