The transition from summer to the autumn storms comes quickly here, faster than you bargain for, however long you have lived here. Sodden washing remains on the line, furniture left on the terrace, and car windows left casualy open, secure in the knowledge that it won't rain, not yet.
But it does, it rains like rain was supposed to rain. Not the incessant drizzle for weeks on end that characterised my autunms in the old country, but short, sharp tempests that sweep in from leaden seas accompanied by all the cannon and mortar fire essential to stage a grandstand finale to the balmy bonus summer that always happens, and always delights.
Our house, like most of the older houses on the Island realises the value of the bounty falling from the sky, every drop that falls on our roof pauses briefly in our cisterna before being reanimated in the loo, shower or kettle. Ramon, the guy who delivers tankers of water to the village in drier times, dressed unfailingly in carpet slippers and shirt unbuttoned to the waist hibernates for the winter, his work for the year is done.
Rain on the Island is such a rarity that it always stops play, for a day or two at least. In the old country it holds no novelty value, so life must continue regargless. Turn your collar to the intruder and press on regardless. Not here, everything stops, as though an earthquake or tsunami. 'No pasa nada' in a day or so it will be dry again and normality can resume its laconic autumnal pace. Shut your shutters, throw another log on your fire, pour yourself a glass of hierbas and enjoy the show.
Whatever it is, it can wait until the rain stops.
1 comment:
evocative and exciting writing
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