Singin’ In The Rain

This is not only one of my all-time favourite films, evocative of sitting curled up on the settee of a Sunday afternoon and also with one of the cleverest dance routines on film (although I do have a soft spot for the Morecambe and Wise parody where Eric is the poor cop who gets soaked while Ernie as Gene stays dry) it pretty much sums up my attitude to the weather.
I’ve lived in Scotland all of my life and to be honest given the choice, freedom and means I don’t think I’d live anywhere else. I love the fact that we have an island and maritime climate, which means we have all the flavours and hues of weather. And I do admit, I’m not a big fan of persistent hot and sunny weather – I’d much rather be able to dry off and feel all cosy than be sweltering.
Obviously as a gardener I welcome the rain. It makes my vegetables grow (and the grass if the jungle out the back is anything to go by). I have one large rain barrel set up and I’m planning another. I like to be able to go out in my garden or the local park and smell the lushness and greenery around.
I’m also a nutter who likes walking in the rain. I am one of those deranged people who claim that there is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing. I like to put on my green flowery wellies and Drizabone drover’s coat, grab my see-through plastic brolly with the goldfish on it and head out to stomp in puddles. Yes, I’m 44 and I still like to have a skiddle like a big kid.
Some of my happiest memories involve rain. A few years ago when I dabbled in druidry and pondered paganism rain used to be a big part of my celebrations. A friend and I (sadly we have now parted company) would go out in the rainy dark and wander through acres of trees to greet the sunrise only to have the rain magically (for us anyway) stop and for birds to sing just at the right moment. We would set up camp in the hills overlooking my old hometown and dance barefoot in the wet grass without a care in the world. I remember one occasion when we were with a group of druids in their grove of trees having a ritual and during the ceremony the heavens opened. My friend and I plus my daughter, already barefoot as we always were, raised our arms and faces to the downpour and drank it in laughing and joking as the rest of the folks there, some of whom were in now rapidly soaking heavy robes and boots as opposed to our less reverential tees and jeans looked on po-faced and it was probably then that I decided that their brand of belief was not for me. I still feel a connection to the earth and the skies but don’t feel the need to wrap it up in superstition and manufactured fables to experience its touch on my skin.
While England basks in a heatwave, we in the land of Northern and Indecent Exposure are being pelted with fat raindrops falling from spongey clouds. Clothes washed and hung out optimistically yesterday hang sodden now from drooping lines. People hunch and hurry, pulling hoods over their hair and muttering about how they hate the weather. Me, I’ll be heading out soon to the library with my wee dog in tow and enjoying the peace and stillness that has others running for cover. And I will splash in some puddles for you x