Up Down Wet day

The Volvo pulls of the road at last onto hardcore which would be a car park for walkers and gliders, if it weren’t for the rain. It is empty; just the four of them in the protective cocoon of the car. He slowly drives as far as he can on the northern side of the space before turning and parking. The windscreen wipers gently beat the rhythm of a rainy day as they sit in silence for a fraction of a moment.

To their north is laid out the rich farmland of the Weald, like a map or Google Earth, brought to life, but misted and vague with the showers which slide across the sky above them. It is, in spite of the wetness, stunningly beautiful, and all the better for being, at this moment, just theirs, not shared with anyone.

They are on the Downs, trees and gorse, heather and sandy chalky rich grass-covered land, dotted with sheep, bereft of people. It is the ideal place for a picnic – just not the ideal time, right now.

In the back, child and dog are restless. The door is opened, dog stumbles out in a hurry to realise the smells which come into to the car all at once, wet bracken, sheep, rabbits, warm, wet grass, wet world. He is in canine heaven, almost tumbling over himself, unbalancing his movements with the force of his tail wagging, not knowing which way to turn right now; so much to smell, so many choices.

They all get out, for a moment, into the light rain. Earlier it had been a torrent, flooding the roads on the way, standing in corners of fields and hedgerows, bubbling raindrops and splashing everywhere. Not many people on the roads; only a fool would go out weather like this. Only a lunatic would go out on a picnic on a day like this day.

They watch small snails squeezing their way up tall grass stems, large spotted slugs struggling without their wet weather gear to make their way to food. They don’t need shelter. Child is running around in the rain, happy to be freed from the journey’s imprisonment. Dog appears and disappears in the undergrowth, lost in his own world.

She stands and simply takes in the view, the place, the moment. He comes to stand beside her, their Barbour jackets squishing together, waxed cotton aroma released as he puts his arm in hers. She looks at him as he turns to her and smiles. The moment catches her and lifts her spirit beyond the scudding clouds. He kisses her gently on the mouth. “I’m hungry,” he says, inappropriately, “are we going to have this picnic, then?” The counterpoint of the ordinary and the crazy makes her smile. He smiles back.

She gets into the spirit. “Ready for a hot drink then?” Reaches into the back of the car for the thermos flask, feels his arms around her hips from behind as she bends, his hips pressed against hers. His capacity for affection momentarily overwhelms her. She basks in the pleasure for a second.

They stand in companionable silence then, watching wild child, wild dog, who care nothing for the weather, celebrating life in their own ways. And at that perfect moment, the rain suddenly stops. The clouds above them racing away eastwards to the distant sea, the underlying warmth of the day suddenly switched on and radiating all around them. And everything is beautiful.

The mother in her kicks in. She calls the child and dog back; time for a picnic. She laughs inside. This life, this man, this child, this world; all is as it should be, right now. Rain, she thinks. It comes, it goes. Good times, bad times; all in the great cycle of life. But right here, right now, things are starting to look quite promising. They share one small kiss before the others interrupt and life, their life, goes on, up, down, up on the Downs on a once wet day which is now – perfect.