The freezing weather of last week has been replaced by rain. For much of this week the village has been shrouded in low lying clouds. As the thermometer rose on Monday so an assortment of grey skies moved in and took up residence, all fifty shades of them! But it’s only a temporary stay, as supposedly cold air from the Arctic is coming to visit at the weekend.
Too often we complain when it rains and I for one am guilty as charged. Of course, there is the destructive side associated with flooding that can’t be overlooked and we can all find another reason or two to hate the rain, my hair goes frizzy for a start. But, I thought to myself, how about turning things around and appreciating the rain; aside from the obvious reality that we need it, perhaps I should focus on the fact that it can be fun! I’m not talking about jumping in puddles, (although I actually quite enjoy that), I can’t stand it when the water goes inside my wellies and I get soggy socks, so I’ll leave that game to the children; instead I’m going to concentrate on the visual aspect of rain.
When I think of taking photos, I usually look for blue skies and clear weather, no one wants to see a photo in the rain, or do they? Perhaps it’s time to think again; not every day is sunny, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a good day, bad weather has its own beauty. When it’s raining the depth of colour in everything is magnified, puddles become mirrors and roads turn slick with moisture.
Armed with my camera and feeling strangely optimistic I headed out early yesterday morning as soon as the children were safely in school. I knew where I wanted to go, Saint Sornin, a small village not too far from us, I’ve photographed it often in perfect conditions but never have I thought of going there in the rain.
Parking the car, I stepped out into the damp street, thinking I was probably quite mad but determined to remain resolutely positive. I pulled the hood of my raincoat over my head to ward off the fine drizzle and shielding my camera inside my scarf to keep it dry I set off across the village, down the narrow streets, stopping to take photos here and there. There was not a soul to be seen; no one was quite as stupid as this silly English women strolling around, seemingly sightseeing in the rain.
I quickened my pace as darker clouds began to gather in the sky. The car was now quite some distance away on the far side of the village. The drizzle had given way to a more insistent rain and I took shelter under the canopy of the huge church door, watching as the rainfall became more intense.
Eventually I made a run for it. No sooner had I unlocked the door and was sitting in the driver’s seat, dry and warm, than the rain ceased.
I set off towards home. The rain may have stopped but the morning still remained overcast and grey.
I couldn’t resist stopping briefly at another village.
I had no idea what the photos I’d already taken would look like once they were on the computer but I knew I wanted to take some more; the light was poor, the day was dull but the local stonework stood out.
Every crack and crevice had been enhanced by the rain,
walls and roads looked as if they had been freshly painted in clear liquid varnish.
Later in the afternoon as I was running some errands there was a chink in the clouds and a sliver of blue sky appeared.
And then the sun came out, illuminating the houses around me and putting them under the spotlight. I stopped, time to take some more photos.
It didn’t last for long. Within an hour the skies were heavy with dark brooding clouds once more, and in no time at all they had shouldered my sliver of blue sky aside and a fine misty rain started to fall again. My Father called it ‘mizzle’.