The sky greets us this morning with a soft kiss of rain—a delicate, silvery curtain falling from a dark, tenderly brooding sky. Dawn has barely broken; the light is diffused and pale, as though the sun itself hesitates to intrude upon such serenity. The world feels hushed beneath the rhythm of falling water, each drop a note in nature’s quiet symphony.
I walk to the gentle percussion of raindrops on my umbrella—a sound I have always found profoundly comforting. There’s something deeply human about it: the closeness of the rain’s rhythm, the intimacy of its whispering touch. It brings me peace, as though the world itself exhales and, for a brief while, forgets its haste.
Carys bounds ahead through the tall grass, her joy uncontained. She barks playfully, pausing to look back at me with bright, rain-slick eyes that gleam like dark glass. Her raincoat, a modest shield against the elements, does little to restrain her boundless collie spirit. The rain only fuels her enthusiasm—she leaps through puddles, sending arcs of water into the air, her energy a celebration of the moment. Like me, she loves these walks best when the world is empty and the rain keeps others away.
Across the meadow, sheep wander slowly through the shimmering grass. Their coats are heavy with water, each drop clinging like a pearl. They move with unhurried grace, stopping now and then to study us—a quiet acknowledgement, a brief crossing of paths between species who share the same weather, the same morning, if only for a moment. Then, they turn back to their grazing, their slow, rhythmic movement almost meditative.
A faint wind breathes across the land, carrying a chill that nips at my cheeks and seeps through my gloves. The season has turned its face toward winter; the air tastes sharper now, the scent of the earth deeper and richer after the rain. Soon it will be time to retrieve my fleece-lined coat, my thick gloves, and my woollen beanie—small comforts that ward off the bite of cold mornings still to come.
We follow the bridleway, though it has been transformed into a shallow river of rainwater. Potholes brim with muddy puddles, stretching ahead like a string of dark mirrors reflecting the grey sky. The path is narrowed by brambles on either side, forcing us to tread carefully along the slender ribbons of dry ground that remain. Carys pauses at each puddle, head tilted in contemplation: to leap, to skirt around, or to plunge straight through? She usually chooses the last, a blur of fur and splash and unrestrained glee.
The rain falls harder now, but I find its persistence soothing. The world is reduced to essentials—sound, breath, the nearness of the earth. No chatter, no footsteps but ours. The fields and hedgerows belong entirely to us this morning.
It’s a shorter walk today, yet no less rewarding. The heavy rain has driven everyone indoors, leaving the landscape to its quiet solitude. I imagine other dogs sitting by their windows, gazing out at the rain and wondering why the world has stopped. Some no doubt refuse to leave the warmth of their beds, while others wait longingly for a walk that won’t come. But for us, this is our weather.
These are the mornings I love most—when the rain softens the edges of the world, when silence feels sacred, and when companionship is marked not by words but by the rhythm of footsteps and the steady fall of rain. We walk together beneath the weeping sky, content and unhurried, wrapped in the peace that only a grey morning can bring.
As we near home, the rain begins to ease, softening to a fine, misting drizzle. The world seems washed—The trees shine, the grass glows, puddles shimmer like fragments of broken sky, and the air carries that sweet, earthy perfume that follows every downpour.
I love days like this.