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It is once again the time of year when Az and I plod dismally in sodden raincoats along a soaking river valley, in the wake of a happy nude greyhound, speculating darkly about whether she is actually an Elf.
The sky is grey. The light is so blue-grey it makes the lights in the windows of the houses look orange. Even when it is technically daylight, it feels like evening. There's no wind here in the valley, but I'm told that down by the sea they have closed the Tamar bridge to high-sided vehicles, caravans (yay!) and bicycles. I assume that cyclists are allowed to walk over with their bikes, and don't have to curl up sadly with them under a hedge, unable to get home... the next bridge up the Tamar is at Gunnislake, about twenty miles as the exhausted cyclist peddles.
This morning there were brilliant blue skies and a rainbow, and the whole land glowed golden in the sunlight. It feels like a long time ago.
The sky is grey. The light is so blue-grey it makes the lights in the windows of the houses look orange. Even when it is technically daylight, it feels like evening. There's no wind here in the valley, but I'm told that down by the sea they have closed the Tamar bridge to high-sided vehicles, caravans (yay!) and bicycles. I assume that cyclists are allowed to walk over with their bikes, and don't have to curl up sadly with them under a hedge, unable to get home... the next bridge up the Tamar is at Gunnislake, about twenty miles as the exhausted cyclist peddles.
This morning there were brilliant blue skies and a rainbow, and the whole land glowed golden in the sunlight. It feels like a long time ago.
