374. More rain

The rain is still falling. Falling on the glistening rooftops and the shivering chimneys. Gushing down pipes and gurgling out of spouts, running down gutters as fast as mountain torrents dragging along cigarette butts, discarded plastic bags and a mush of leaves and twigs and mortar and tiles. It is bouncing off the roofs of the parked cars, twirling around the wheels. To join into this feast the wind is now howling down the narrow streets, and now the rain is falling in all directions and you just do not know which way to hold your umbrella. And it doesn't matter anyway because the umbrella gets blown away, you with it, and somehow the rain manages to get under the umbrella.

And there is me walking our dog, Ralph. The few people we meet on our way to the canal are people hurrying up from the station to their car or from the baker's to their home, trying to shelter their soggy baguettes. It is just Ralph and I who are out for our pleasure. Well, judging by the way he drags his paws, for my pleasure. I pull him down the street all the way to the footbridge and across the the waterside. The soil is waterlogged and my feet sink into it. I wish I had my wellies on. I can feel the damp seeping inside my shoes (Miss Organiser's) and getting through my ski socks (Baby's) but I keep on going. There is no-one around - no even the usual joggers. Just me and Ralph the dog. He keeps pulling up towards the road and I keep pulling him back so we can walk in the tall wet grass by the canal. There are plenty of ducks on the water, having a wonderful time and quacking noisily. But apart from that and a few cars picking people up from the station the whole town is quiet. All we can hear is the rain falling and the water flowing. 

We go up on the station bridge and back under it and follow the path along the barracks. The town has just done the path up and instead of bushes and brambles and a gravel path we now have a wide concrete path (special surface for the water to run down no kidding) and grassy banks and benches here and there. But no lights. I keep on walking. Umbrella in my right hand and dog leash in my left. As we are approaching the lock it is obvious that the water level has risen. The fishermen have gone home, unwilling to sit so close to the fish. Over the bridge we go and along the road the other side of the canal. There are puddles everywhere here and Ralph is finally happy as he runs from muddy puddle to muddy puddle to drink the tasty muddy water, his favourite kind of water. And all the way back down along the canal under the horse-chestnut trees with more water dripping from their leaves onto our heads. By the time we get back home my socks and shoes are soaking, my jeans heavy and deep blue as if they'd come out of the wash and my brolly looks like a dinghy. My coat looks like a wet dog. But I am in a dry home. 

Ready to get a grip on Baby.