We have had (correction: we are having) the worst spring in 50 years. We enjoyed more agreeable weather during the winter months than we have had since March arrived. Aside from a single day off for good behavior, I have been a virtual prisoner for over a month, but only because I thought I could out-smart Mother Nature.
When spring auditioned on the 4th of March, I was well ready for it. So, when—two days later—winter dragged her off stage and, once again, hogged the spotlight, it put me in a right funk. The wind, the snow, the rain, the bitter cold, the grey skies—it was all too much, and I vowed not to go outside until the nice weather returned. How long could it be, I reasoned, it’s almost April, nice weather is just around the corner. So I sat and waited.
Thirty-one days later (barring the aforementioned sunny, but chilly, 19th of March) I was still inside, looking outside, growing more depressed every day. Then, this past weekend, spring poked her head up and made another game attempt at busting out all over. It was a nice weekend—we even got up to London for the day and it was grand—but Monday found me back inside, looking out at the rain and obsessively checking the weather forecasts, which promised rain, rain, rain and then more rain.
So I complained to my wife, who offered no sympathy and, instead, observed, “What did you expect? You live in Britain. If you wait for nice weather, you’re never going to go anywhere.”
I thought about her words and decided there was wisdom in them. So this morning I put on my wellies, struggled into a fleece coat and my waterproof jacket and—armed with an ordinance survey map—set out for one of my favorite pubs, in a town some five miles away. (I also, fortunately, grabbed a wooly hat on the way out; half a mile into the walk I put the wooly hat on and wished I had thought to bring gloves.)
Two hours and 11,000 steps later (I have a pedometer; wouldn’t I just) I am here, sitting in the canopied area of the beer garden, listening to the rain tapping on the roof, enjoying a nice pint and a cigar.
The walk was not as pleasant as it would have been on a summer
afternoon, but it was certainly invigorating; there is something about walking
in inclement weather that makes you feel energized, and just a bit smug. And the
weather turned out to be not all that bad. It rained off and on, and was windy,
but much of the pathways were sheltered by trees so, occasionally, the climate
managed to skate up to the border of “pleasant.”
It was also a treat to find myself—in one of the most crowded locations
in Europe—quite suddenly and totally alone. New York state has a population
density of 413 people per sq. mile (for the continental US, it is 89), whereas
West Sussex boasts 1,101 per sq. mile, yet soon after I left the edge of town,
I entered a seemingly uninhabited wilderness.
There is also something satisfying about arriving at a destination under
your own power. That first sip of beer is nowhere near as refreshing (or
welcome) if you have arrived at the pub after a five-minute drive compared to,
say, a two-hour walk. And it is exponentially satisfying when that pub has been
around for a few hundred years, and realizing that the fireplace, the beams,
the walls (well, some of them, anyway) were there to be enjoyed, leaned on
and/or pissed against when Shakespeare was a boy. It makes me feel—interloper though
I am—part of a continuum, as if I am a participant in something bigger than
And if I can enjoy all of this while smoking a fine cigar and sipping a
pint of authentic ale sheltered under a canopy that affords a view of a
picturesque country pub garden and the opportunity to watch rain falling on
something other than myself, then life is very good, indeed.
|Not so bad, after all.|
|Good thing I wore my wellies.|
|One of the hazards of hiking in Sussex, though it does keep the walk interesting.|
|That brown smudge near the end of the road is a deer.|
|Abandoned nest of the Sussex Stealth Spider--we grow 'em big here, bucko!|
Now, if I can just find my way back home, this will have been a good day.