Fowl Weather or Writer’s Weather?

When I looked out of the window first thing this morning I was met with a scene Noah might well have recognised: a sky so dense with rain it blended with the sea, and hills shrouded in low cloud so their green crowns looked topped in snow.

The Ladies greeted me with sad little squawks. When it rains this heavily, they are safest in their inner sanctum - a gravelled space protected by wire and wood from the predatory opportunism of foxes and avian raptors. Our buzzards and kestrel have been on the hunt recently, their appetites spiked by the frequent downpours that make flying with drenched plumage all-but impossible. The Ladies are not aware of this, of course, and only know that their freedom is curtailed while the rain lasts.

Meanwhile, I am quite content, and welcome these rainy days as an opportunity to spend blissful hours writing. Today is no exception, for shortly I’ll be taking young Isobel Fenton to the banks of a flood-swollen river threatening to swallow her only means of escape. Will she make it? We shall see, but one thing’s for certain - Isobel - and my Ladies - would prefer to go dry shod. Whatever the weather, whenever the period, people (and chickens) experience the elements in much the same way. How they view that experience, however, is entirely individual. Therein lies the tale.