The Flood

And the rain was upon the earth forty days and forty nights.

Pah! They got off lightly, ol’ Noah, ‘n Ham, ‘n Jehoshaphat …and Nelly…and Uncle Tom Cobley and all that lot.

Over here in the North Wet we seem to have had many more than our allotted forty days of damp. Which at least means I have some chance of catching-up on my blogging deficit since I am (as usual) weeks behind.

B and I had a walk at Leighton Moss. We hoped to see the ospreys that have been regularly hunting there, or the family of otters which have been disporting themselves in broad daylight, or the bearded tits which ought to have been swallowing grit with gay abandon. But although it wasn’t raining for a change, it was extremely windy and even the joys of grit-swallowing couldn’t entice the wildlife out from in front of Celebrity Apprentice Kitchen Wars On Ice. We had to make do with a few disconsolate gulls and a despondent heron. Oddly, perversely even, we still enjoyed ourselves and made plans to come back to not watch wildlife again.

The annual church picnic, outing, beano, junket, to Brown Howe on the shores of Coniston Water still went ahead. The kids all donned wetsuits and dived into the flooded lake. Most of the adults (myself especially) cowered under a gazebo which R had thoughtfully erected (he was out on the lake in his dinghy). I had vowed that this year I would definitely not, under no circumstances, swim in the lake this year. But I did pack some trunks, just in case, and then at round six in the evening the hills on the far side of the lake appeared for the first time, and blue sky broke out all over and I succumbed. It was absolute magic – not as cold as I had expected with marvellous views. I swam well out into the lake and watched the National Trust’s gondola steam past a couple of times.

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The Flood

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