Nothing but the wild rain

Once I was at the furthest point away from home on my walk this afternoon, it began to rain really heavily. I had a small umbrella with me fortunately, but still was soon soaked to the skin. It let up for a minute or two and I took a nice shot capturing the colours of the sea. I love it when the sky is darker than the sea. It makes me think of the paintings of Mark Rothko. As I was walking along, listening to my audiobook of Powsels and Thrums by Alan Garner. a crow was hopping about being blown backwards alongside me at about the same pace. Felt oddly companionable and a little magical. 

While I was walking across the salts, it was raining again. A man shouting at me in distress. He'd opened the door of his car, and his dog had run out and disappeared. I stood looking out across the salts and could see no dog and walked around a bit to try to help. The man's despair, and the wild rain, made it all seem visceral and weird.  Like some scene in Thomas Hardy with the pathetic fallacy of heavy rain. The dog simply found its way back to the car and was waiting for him in the end. The man passed me in his car and offered me a lift, which I declined as I was going into Morrisons, buying beans for the bean jar I plan to cook tomorrow, and chocolate for Mrs Kenny.

Home and changed out of sodden jeans, and settled on the gold sofa with Lorraine.

The sea between downpours.