Fortified by pizza and with the strong incentive to get out of an overheated cottage besieged by rain, I ran out along the lanes. The river was spating and brown, the canal was brown and soup like.
The roads became narrower and the hedgebanks lining them taller as the climb went on. Birdsong carried through the wet air and drips patted solidly onto leathery tree leaves.
Out on the hill was clear. Old quarries nibbed into the contours. The comms mast looked as though it would rather be somewhere else.
I flashed the torch for the kids, but the cloud had filled up the valley.
One of those good runs made all the better for lack of forethought.