Of Rain and Shelter

After such a long absence, it’s tempting to begin with apologies and explanations. Or perhaps reasons. Maybe excuses. There’s also a self-inflicted pressure to write something deeply meaningful; to come back with a splash or a bang. Instead, I’ll do none of these things. Instead, I’ll just pick up as if it isn’t four months since I wrote anything here. Instead, I’ll just write what comes up and, like old friends, we can slip back into conversation just like that.

It’s mid-afternoon on a Tuesday as I type. My dog, Maisie, asleep on the floor beside my desk. We have retreated inside, not so much because of the fat raindrops that are falling as because of the thunder that is rumbling through the valley. The sky outside is leaden. The world grey. Inside, I have the light on, despite the hour. I suppose I could describe this as a bleak day, but the air feels charged in a way that I love. Lightning flashes through the dull outdoor palette. I like thunderstorms. As long as I’m not out in them.

A friend and I were caught in a severe thunderstorm once while out hiking, miles from any substantive shelter. The tempest surrounded us. Rain pelted down on us and the crack of thunder came immediately on top of the lightning flashes. Much too close for comfort. The trees around us bent and swayed in the wind. I’m not sure which one of us first admitted to not liking it, to being scared. We both were. We decided we needed to get lower in the landscape, to be protected by some sort of shelter from the very real possibility of trees or branches coming down on us. We left the trail and went down into a small gully, away from the trees, which we were afraid would be struck by lightning and fracture into thousands of projectiles. We crouched behind a low granite outcrop as the storm raged above us. In hindsight, it’s hard to know if we did the right thing or not. I’ve looked into it and the advice is that there is no safe place outside during a thunderstorm but that you should avoid sheltering amongst trees. Bit hard when you are caught on a multi-day hike through the forest. Suffice to say neither of us was struck by lightning, and a wall of water didn’t surge down the gully and wash us away. No trees fell on us. The storm abated. We carried on walking. By the time we got to our destination for the day, the sun was out and our clothes almost dry, making it hard to believe the intensity of the weather we had witnessed.

Here and now, I’m happy to be inside. Outside, this storm is in full swing. Dumping rain heavily now. I can hear it running in the gutters and downpipes. The barrel we catch water in for the garden is overflowing. Puddles are forming on the driveway. The dog has retreated under my desk. She gives me a doleful look.

I wonder about the wrens I was watching earlier as they bounced along the grass. Retreated somewhere now, like Maisie and me. The frog I disturbed while digging in the garden will likely relish the downpour. My goats, not so much. They hate getting wet. They’ll be tucked up in their shelter, eating hay and watching the rain. They sprint for shelter when it starts raining.

We had moved the goats to a new temporary paddock a couple of weeks ago, and given them a makeshift shelter made of an old cage and a tarpaulin. Checking it this morning, the ‘roof’ was bowed under the weight of collected water from the previous night’s rain. I tipped it off, the goats running from the splash. I stood in the drizzle and considered trying to fix it. Instead, I grabbed feed buckets and called the goats - ‘Sesame, Cinnamon, Ashcroft, come on!” They crowded me as I walked back to their normal paddock, which has better fencing and a proper shelter.

The intensity of the storm has passed, the thunder rolling off to the east. Quietening. Slow steady rain now. Soaking deep. Outside the wet bark of the karris is luminous. A kookaburra laughs in the distance. The dog and I will hunker down a while longer, before going out to check and feed the goats and chooks.

Later still that day, we walk, the dog and I. Through wet forest. The steady drip. Late afternoon sunlight glistening on wet leaves, making shimmering curtains of the misty rain. The smell of wet bark and sodden earth heavy in the air. Breathe it in. Relish this season, so welcome after the long dry summer.

It’s a week later now. Another rainy Tuesday afternoon. Not stormy this time, but cold and mostly grey. A wind that cuts through. Again, Maisie and I are inside. We were out in it earlier, walking, soaked through. The wet dog smell has come inside with us, but she looked too miserable when I suggested she stay outside in her kennel until she dried off. She sleeps now on her bed by the fireplace, although I haven’t lit the fire yet. Soon.

I can hear one of the goats calling. It’s still too early for their dinner, but it’s not for food that she is calling. She’s coming into season. Tomorrow, or perhaps the day after, I’m taking her to visit a buck at a nearby goat stud. But that’s another story for another day.

See you outside,

Jill