A summer's day on the heath
Rain sweeping across the heath in curtains. Wind bending the grasses, tossing the branches of the silver birches.
Not a complaint. I love walking on the heath on days like this. The purple heather and the golden grasses and the bright yellow flowers of Dwarf Gorse at their most beautiful under a dark grey sky. Paths fade as they curve away from you. You can never reach the end of them: your destination is cloud and rain.
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And after the walk, a pot of tea in the little campsite café on the edge of the heath. A few forlorn-looking tents in the fields. Three other customers in the café, watching the rain blow by on the wind outside the windows. A couple with a very hairy and very wet dog were chatting cheerfully with a gently-dripping cyclist in yellow hi-viz. (When the café owner commiserated with him on the rain, he just said, "Oh, you get used to it.") The camaraderie of foul weather. It cheers us up no end.