“Shall we cycle or ride this morning?” asked Chris as we stood by our bedroom window and surveyed the grey mist outside.

“It might be a safer bet to walk,” I answered.

So we dressed in trousers, not shorts, and set off after breakfast.

“Which way? Shall we go to the forest?” Chris asked from outside our gate.

“How about walking through the woods first and carrying on down to Secmaton Lane if it looks as though the rain will hold off?” I suggested.

“Good idea,” Chris said, “So we won’t have too far to go if we have to turn back.”

 

It started to rain at a point when it was too far to turn back and we were only slightly nearer to home by continuing on; hence, at just over half-way through our longer walk we began to get wet. I thought of the conversation I had had at my “Bookworm Club” last Sunday, which went something like this….

 

“I wish I could go to Australia again to avoid the English winter” I said, (or it may have been something similar with regard to it being easier to lose weight in Australia).

“Oh, why is that?” asked our gorgeous leader, Reuben.

“Because I like the outdoors  life – getting up early and going out for a walk or a cycle ride before the sun gets too hot,” I answered, a little surprised that anyone would wonder at the advantages of spending our winter months in warmer climes.

“But you can do that here,” he said.

“It’s not quite the same especially not when it rains,” I laughed.

“Oh yes you can. I love running in the rain…”

“So do I,” chimed in Elizabeth, my niece.

“But it’s dark in the early mornings here…”

“The best time” said Liz, and Reuben agreed.

“Well I don’t see much evidence of such enthusiasm,” I remarked a tad sarcastically.(Obviously it’s not dark or wet enough when I go out.)

 

Chris and I were going up one of the steepest hills in Dawlish when the rain increased to a downpour; we didn’t feel like running. Our waterproof jackets proved not be waterproof at all and the nylon stuck uncomfortably to Chris’s arms (I had sleeves underneath); our wet trousers flapped around our legs; and it was hard to tell if the water at the ends of our noses were raindrops or dewdrops. As we passed a new estate still in the process of being built (where there used to be beautiful countryside) two workmen wearing hard hats (imagine the din!) crossed our paths. I held up my hands and laughed.

“Lovely day for a walk,” I said loudly, in case they couldn’t hear under their hats.

“You ought to trying laying bricks in it,” one of them responded (whether or not he heard me, he got my gist alright).

 

We climbed the muddy path up to the now disused golf course. The wind was at its wildest at the top and it turned my wet strands of hair into fine lashes that whipped and stung my face. The grass was long and wet; and I pointed out that our feet would probably smell of dogs’ wee (as has happened before under similar conditions). Chris said “it isn’t a case of grass-cutting but cost-cutting”, which is bound to be true; and one day they’ll sell the useless land, that used to be a lovely well-kept golf course, for yet more building; and the dogs won’t be able to use it for their toilet; I won’t be worried about my shoes smelling of dogs’ wee because I won’t be allowed to walk up there either. One day…

Back on our busy main road all the vehicles had their headlights on full. Most of the cars that passed by us paid little heed to the effect of their cars going at speed through the streams of water at the sides of the road, and our already wet trousers were further drenched; conversely (and interestingly), all the trucks slowed down in an effort not to splash us.

Every item of the clothes we wore earlier this morning had to be wrung out and hung out to dry. Funnily enough the storm has passed and the sun has come out. It isn’t such a bad day after all. We should have waited.

Did we enjoy walking in the pouring rain? Well, we laughed alot, but no, not really, I’d still prefer to spend the English winter in Australia, where I can get up early and be out before the sun gets too hot…