A dirty grey mist clamps down onto the earth, closing us in and reducing the horizon to a uniform blended line, erasing the bulge of the Hill of Fare, the tower on Scolty, and beyond, dark Lochnagar. A ferocious autumn wind tears at the near-naked branches, ripping off their last leaves and exposing bony fingers thrusting in all directions.
Raindrops sweep through the air, splatting onto windows and faces with equal glee. It’s a day for the fireside; even Dusty recognizes that as she stops in her stride, gazing at me with reproach. Am I guilty of causing this tempest or does she just blame me for taking her out into it? I’ll never know, but I do know that if I don’t take her out, I’ll be mopping up later.
Somewhere today the sun is shining and the ground is parched. Crops are shrivelled and people dream of refreshing rain.
Or not.
