The signs of spring were here. Green grass. Horses not wearing rugs. Horses shedding prolifically. The village cider stand open, and a mug of good dry cider beside my keyboard. Having to mow the lawn. Not having to feed hay. Going out at 7am without wearing long underwear. (Gin will laugh at me for that!) The dogs bathed.
Then the rain came, day after day, varying only in intensity. The ground is muddy again. Horses wear rugs again. They are fed hay again. I wear a raincoat whenever I go out. The dogs are smelly again. At least I'm getting by without the long underwear.
I dream of sun. I think of bright fresh days when a breeze blows Brena's mane about whilst the sun warms me. I imagine emerald-green sward. I live in hope. The sun will come again. One day soon I'll ride beneath a blue sky and look through clear air to the far horizon.
For now the rain redoubles, regrouping its forces and recruiting the wind. Tree branches lie in the road, dustbins are blown over. It's a rough day, a maritime day as if we lived by the shore. An island day. Mention the word island and many people might think of the tropics, sun, fine sand and palm trees. But there are bleak northerly islands too, where the breakers crash and gales tear at the rocks and sodden turf. Today this island approximates to the latter, much as one might dream of the former.