Certainly. It rained overnight: my Dad said 93mm of rain fell: a whole month’s worth - though I’m not sure how he knows. Apart from that little hour or so of evening sunshine yesterday, it has been persistent.
We were supposed to go to a botanical gardens this morning. The Intrepids both thought it would be a soggy way to see flowers that would not be at their best, and so we changed the plan and went for a beach walk instead - which turned out, ironically enough, to be a soggy way for anyone to see the three of us not at our best. I was bedraggled.
At least we answered the question of what it’s like to be on a beach in winter: it could have been charming. It could also be a freezing, slippery clamber over shingle and sloppy seaweed, where the incoming tide seeps ever closer and it feels like the cold rain is being fired at you from all directions.
My Dad had taken an umbrella. At one point ahead, he angled it into the wind and stood on a spit of wet sand. It looked exactly like a Jack Vettriano painting.
After lunch I did a bit of writing. There’s really not much you can do when it’s so horribly wet, so I took myself into an imagination - the journey from King’s Cross to Edinburgh Waverley, a missing treasure and a mysterious disappearing professor who leaves his monogrammed suitcase on a seat. I didn’t get too far before I bored myself to sleep: Stevenage, I reckon.
Then dinner out, in a restaurant overlooking the sea. It was grey and murky out there, just a hazy line where the ocean met the sky. Behind the cloud and fog, the Palmerston Forts loomed like dark thimbles, and further still the outline of Portsmouth was barely visible.
I hope it’s not raining again tomorrow. We could do without another of these deluge days. There’s still a whole island to see and to explore!
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