Drips and drops and spits and spats
Down it pours like dogs and cats
Liquid snows compose to flows
That grows and grows and grows and grows
It was a dark and stormy morning as I entered Durlston, the rain settling in comfortably for the day. After armouring up in whatever waterproof gear I could get my hands on I set out, secateurs in hand for some multi tasking. Holm Oak, Ash and Sycamore swayed in the wind all around me, their silhouettes rocking back and fourth rhythmically in the gathering light. Somewhere nearby I heard a Blackbird call, a single short trill amidst the drum of water droplets.
Heading down the path beside Long Meadow, Xanthoria parietina and Evernia Prunastri encrusted the branches of the hedgerow. Moisture was dripping off their fronds, beads pattering on to the ground and joining the rivulets of rainwater that were forming atop the clay soil.
I did a little combined pruning and harvesting at the bottom of the meadow and through the Woodlands, simultaneously clearing routes that were becoming overgrown and gathering material for making festive Christmas wreaths. Ivy clad almost everything, thin matrices and lattices enmeshing dry stone walls, with thicker, more mature skeletons entombing trees and stumps. Madder was showing it’s berries at various spots and a few Privet retained some late fruit. By the shed I caught the fleeting but distinctive hoo-hoo of a Tawny Owl, the last call of the dwindling night.
The rivulets were fusing now, creating streams that carved gulleys into the earth. Topsoil was worn away by tireless hydraulic action, exposing stone and gravel beneath. I trudged on past them, weighed down by accumulated water and foliage.
Returning via the Bark Chip Path a few quiet cheeps from Dunnock and Wren were faintly audible, alongside the pips of a Robin warming up for the festive period. Breaking back into the open I cast my gaze across the meadow and watched the rain come driving down. It was layered, with a steady barrage of heavy diagonal drops serving as a background. Smaller clouds of raindrops were blowing within this downpour, like transient clouds of thick mist. Water was everywhere, falling from everywhere, flowing everywhere, down everything. Including me. I decided discretion was the better part of valour at this stage and beat a hasty retreat to the dry. I hope you can forgive me.