I seduces me out with sunny cheeks and a glint beyond its cloudy eyes then whips me with a wicked Easterly ripe from the Arctic. Hood up I brave it anyway because it does look nice out there. But just when I’m at my most exposed, miles from any representation of shelter, it barrages me with frozen peas which beat seedlings to the ground and sears my forehead.
Nothing for it but to hunker down and wait for it to pass. The former silence is a roar. The bird life goes quiet. The tender new plants keel over. And the horizon is sluiced out like someone had rubbed it off a picture.
When my legs and ankles can no longer stand this Masai position it thankfully stops. But I’m soaked. I head on back with soggy shoulders, coat dripping down on bits of me I’d managed to keep dry and I wipe the drip off the end of my nose with soggy glove.
But the birds perk up again and the horizon returns to holiday brochure sparkle as if nothing had happened. And just when I reach the shelter I’d longed for earlier the sun comes out.
I know I should be grateful, but the term fickle bitch springs to mind!