Our last but one walk with Ishbel, a couple of days ago, was glorious. The sun was shining, the bluebells were out, much small calf cuteness was on display and this, I fear, lulled us into a false sense of security. Yesterday was Ishbel’s designated official birthday, the real one having been cruelly overset by lockdown, and to justify some cake we all strode out for an afternoon stroll. The harbingers of doom had been in place since morning, when I observed a rather steely sky when getting the artificial Christmas tree down from the garage (of which more in another post), but I blithely ignored them. The cows, after all, were still standing up. (They later lay down and this was just a front to fool me!)
Along the hedgerow the water avens were up, much cheered by the recent rain, and there were many wild strawberry flowers peeking through gentle clouds of cross wort. It was, though, just a trifle chilly. By the time we passed the rape fields the sky was leaden and a dark plume rising from the hills to the north betokened a wet old evening for Bill’s Mother. “That hill has disappeared” declared mum in Cassandra like tones, we had better head home. It all sounded rather melodramatic but, in truth, cake, tea and a fire were all starting to see infinitely preferable to topping up Ishbel’s step count. We turned up the hill and the heavens opened.
By the time we made it back we were all wet through. Drowned rat was the style “du jour”
For once I agree with Lachlan. It is annoying when your mother is always right.
Live from Ruthven 