A full day of heavy rain on summer‑hard ground falls, runs and accumulates in a familiar, even reassuring, way – up to a point. I know where I need to take its measure. I know the flashpoints and weaknesses in our defences, where the water might seep into the house, my hut, the horses’ barn; they peer out stoically, blinking through long, dripping, witch-knotted forelocks.
My son turns his 22-year-old car round on the field edge, its rump to the weather like the cows next door, so the water is less likely to seep through its perished rubber seals. I know how the water will build, overspill and run down the pavementless lanes – a deepening graphite crosshatching either side of the camber, or opaque as spilt milk off the chalk tracks. I know at what point the leap from the garden steps to the lane becomes unjumpable, and my work shoes are swapped for wellies. I know which benignly brimming potholes have hidden depths. The lanes flood in all the usual places, so I know to slow by Coldharbour Farm corner and, if the water’s reached the oak tree, to turn around.
