Storm before the calm

The current persistent rain is by turns extreme and gentle. Nothing like an August Southern European storm which would be over in half an hour or less, leaving previously hot sun drenched people slightly confused. And wet. By contrast, this late Spring one has been building for a day or so. 

The evening before was perfect; the hot day had given way to an evening of the purest honey gold. Lulling lovers and amblers onto the bay to touch the reflected colours and drink in the cypress scent. But the alert birds knew better, knew that the rain was coming, and chased the low flying insects as if possessed. They were right. 

Yesterday the sky was thoroughly riled, occasionally indulging in bouts of crying. The shiny slate grey sea persistently sulked and murmured, but the mountain cloud ignored such childish behaviour and hung there, wetly, like a limp linen hanky. Like all unpredictable late spring weather, it refused to accept that after a good cry the sun should come out. So this morning remained cool and Londonly damp. 

After a day of my own private storms and tears of frustration with my own head, the continuing unsettled wet weather was a relief. I adore how the sun transforms the place, but when you're battling demons and a temperature caused by mosquito bites, it's much better when you're surrounded by cool breezes and refreshing showers. 

Yesterday the local restaurant was happy to supply me with constant hot tea, and I stayed there so long through the afternoon and into the evening that the kitchen smells became too interesting to ignore. The black risotto was recommended so I fed my dark thoughts flavoursome fishy rice. Blackness continued its theme; the stars were blanketed, and the wet tiny streets were devoid of their usual bright cheery people. 

If it was damp enough to be London, it was cool enough for some exercise. So I set out up the road on a mission to jog out my own moody clouds; I was doubtful that the brooding hills and threatening sea would lighten anytime soon but it didn't matter. The air was fresh and I got to the next bay along the coast before being caught in a heavy shower. An ancient gnarled olive tree offered some shelter and so I enjoyed the odd splash, without the full deluge. 

Once I was nearer home, I could sense the thunderstorm was immanent. I sat on a jetty meditating whilst watching the different types of clouds regroup, gather strength, and engulf the mountains. The clouds in the higher atmosphere took on dark horizontal stripes, whilst those lower down were a pale angry swirl. 

They could hold back no more, they succumbed to letting the torrential water fall. It was majestic, and a powerful climax to the days of gray. The sky has now perceptibly brightened, and like my own mood, patches of optimism have finally broken through.