I look past the torrential rain to admire the rainbow and remember the words of an old farmer when he heard me complaining about the wet weather – ‘We need the rain to fatten the little taters.’
In the garden at twilight and The LSO and I stand perfectly still as a teenage fox trots between us. His fur is almost stripy, red with black streaks, as if he’s been the victim of a trainee hairdresser. He’s on his nightly wander which sometimes includes peering through our patio doors.
The LSO fetches a chair so that I can rest my back while he continues weeding. Our house is on the slopes of the Malvern Hills – the hills that were, long ago, believed to be a giant altar. I take off my shoes and wriggle bare feet in the grass, imagining the strength and magic beneath me.