At last, we’ve sailed into peaceful waters, in fact waters so still, that on Thursday whilst running along the coast path, they resembled an ocean of glass.
I adore the weather we’re experiencing at the moment, this blistering, blue-bright, sharp and good-to-be-alive weather. But there’s something about a storm, something menacing and threatening that I’m drawn to. Battening down the hatches, making for the storm shelter (sorry, getting carried away), tying the shed roof down (again), then hunkering down to watch and wait for the destruction. I mean, it doesn’t get much worse than a cancelled Parkrun, now that is a storm!
(OK, a first world problem – I’m being flippant, this is a fun bit of writing. Storms – cyclones especially ones with a name like Idai have nothing to do with fun. They rip up people’s lives, like the people of Mozambique, Malawi and Zimbabwe who have lost everything and are desperate for our help )
We’ve had some weather though, haven’t we? So special, in fact the Met office has taken to naming the stuff, but calling something Gareth, even when you stick the word storm in front of it, takes the edge of things I find. Selfishly, I’ve been thrilled to welcome Freya, Gareth and Hannah (storm) because (fabulous coincidence), I’m currently writing about a storm. I’ve stood out in the field watching the air at the other end of the valley turn thick and yellow andwaited for the roar to start up through the woods. I’ve dragged my fellow run-ess’s along the coast path, running backwards against a force 6, all in the name of research. I managed to jot down a few observations, but a great gust of wind came and off my words flew. The pictures I took were blurred – too windy, camera shake. So I’m back, left with my imagination, having to dream up a mighty storm Idris. In this dream I’ll make sure that I’m not running into the storm and the wind’s behind me, then, I'll imagine the most blistering PB ever achieved by an author at Colby Parkrun ever! (I’m good at writing fiction!)
Last time I saw the house it was someone else’s home, a bad taste place oozing sage green and old nicotine. Now it’s doubled, trebled in size, even filled with all the boxes. Someone tell me, point me at a place to begin. Inside or out? The gardens have us surrounded, green closing in on all sides. Branches shooting their claws out, reaching to tickle and tap on windows, primroses explode from flagstones in the front, and there’s an overgrown tangle of greenhouses, orchards, vegetable patches and herb gardens creeping and climbing out back.
Extract from The House With Old Furniture
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