I almost reached shore when the rain started

31st July 2023

Last night’s rain has left a pale mist alongside the puddles, like a photographic filter dramatising someone’s countryside pics. It’s not dark, but enough to damp sharp colours and be gentle to early Monday eyes.

The wheat is uncut, a freshly-washed strawberry blonde, thick and dense now and as beautiful as ever. Hedgerows bordering the fields have grown ridiculously tall and lush with the July rain, like unruly teenagers, handsome and striking and constantly in the way. Driving through East Suffolk has become like driving through Cornwall, you can’t see anything in the distance until you get to a gap in the hedge.

The dark and tatty brunette of ripe oil seed rape is damp now too. There aren’t many bright colours in high summer. Dastardly ragwort provides an occasional dash of yellow from among well-watered glorious greens. Twice I spotted a splatter of poppies knocked down by rain, fresh drops of blood on the edge of the verge.

The sea is wonderful. Big and deep with huge, slow-moving waves every eight beats or so. It’s the sighing breath of a dozing sea monster. A sparkling silver line marks the horizon, pure silver, if only we could get there. For a moment, the sun breaks through, as if someone had flicked the light on. It doesn’t last long. Clouds win.

To the east, out to sea, the clouds are soft cotton grey, bundled together tight and dense. To the north, the sky looks as if it has been clumsily dip-dyed a royal purple, rich and deep with enough of a gap underneath the colour to see the distant coast.

Behind us, to the west, the grey is dense and creeping up on us, helped by an unexpectedly spiky south westerly breeze. This morning’s high tide wants to carry us north and out. The out part can be hard to notice until you’re further from the beach than you intended. Irritating in the summer. In the winter, it can be scary to wonder if you can find the energy to swim further than you had intended and against the tide.

The full gang is there, plus the unofficially-adopted Perus. There’s less chance to chat in a high tide, no feet on the bottom, just the odd word as you’re washed by.

The sea feels cold this morning, blame the high tide and the recent rain. I’d made the decision to get out, and had nearly reached the shore when the rain started. Not a downpour but a full-on shower. I rush along, covering people’s stuff. Turning bags, so that the opening is closed and covered, pulling robes over clothes and towels.

I fail to cover the stuff belonging to me, the Canadian and the boatbuilder. We all go home in wet shoes.