I didn’t take any time off over the Christmas-New Year break, thinking I’d go away once schools were back and the weather settled down. It’s been a miserable summer, wet and cool, and beautiful days few and far between.
Two events coincided that pushed me to take a week off. My PhD supervisor and his wife visited for the first time in 17 years, so I took a couple of days off work to spend with them.
The week prior, my colleague handed in her resignation, which meant I really needed to take time off before she left all the work to me.
So I looked for places to stay in an area where it never rains in February and where, for the past few weeks, the weather report has consistently shown sun and warmth. I found what looked like a perfect spot: a “fishing cottage” about 30 mins out of town. I booked.
When I arrived, I couldn’t believe my good fortune: this place was perfect. It really was (is) my ideal summer getaway. Rustic enough to be character filled but with sufficient mod cons to be comfortable. A view of hills and the river. Birds and no people. Heaven.
And then it started to rain. It’s mean spirited of me to begrudge the farmers this because the hills were extremely dry and the week before a fire had ripped through destroying much farmland but fortunately no houses or people. But still.
It’s rained for the past three days. The hills have just a hint of green about them once again.
This morning I must leave my little idyll. On cue the clouds have lifted and blue sky is again poking through. The holiday weather gods have it in for me and I do not know what I have done to anger them.