There is no weather in Somerset. There hasn’t been any all week. That’s official. This also applies to the whole of the South West. Not once was the region mentioned in the 08:00 weather updates on the BBC’s Today programme. Sometimes, the South East got two or even three mentions. Maybe they took up our spot, and possibly that of another area which also doesn’t have any weather.
It’s odd the BBC can forget the South West exists, especially as the M5 motorway is chock-a-block with cars heading west from the South East at this time of year, so much so if it were a human, it would be rushed into surgery to have its severely clogged arteries operated on. Every day, the M5 is closed for one reason or another – accidents; volume of traffic; tragically, bridge-jumpers. When the English summer holidays begin, there’s a noticeable lack of choice in our supermarkets due to the increase on demand. Ironically, the regular closure of the M5 means deliveries struggle to get through, adding to shortages.
This was back in May, when things were still in bloom.
Even the weather itself is contributing to our lack of weather. Yesterday, there was the promise of rain on some meteorological apps. It was due at 11:00. But 11:00 came and went with the sky still blue, save for a few Simpsons-type clouds drifting across it. When we stepped outside to investigate, scanning the heavens for the bulbous grey skies we hoped were bringing the garden much-needed relief, we could see plenty of dark ones pregnant with water. Trouble is, they completely skirted us, heading diagonally north and east in such a clear line it had me wondering if there was a force field around us.
I’ve been in shorts and sandals for weeks. Morning after morning of opening the curtains to allow the sunshine in; each day warm enough for lunch, dinner, coffee, and the occasional gin to be eaten/drunk outside. If there’s a cooling breeze, this happens in the sunshine of the garden. Many days it’s too hot, so we eat in the shade of the patio. It’s like being back abroad. When the weather forecasts that ignore us mention what’s happening in some other parts of the UK, Andy and I look at each other, remembering the times before we decamped to warmer climes when news reports featured people in southern parts enjoying sunny weather while we wondered when or if our summer was ever going to start.
The little baler isn’t that different from the one I remember on the farm.
Of course, it’s not all ‘Summer breeze makes me feel fine.’ The earth is scorched, sometimes literally. Like many places, there have been fires. The closest was in Oake, a short distance away. From our bedroom window, we look over a golden field which was harvested weeks ago, a month or so early. Following the harvest, long lines of cut wheat (or whatever it is) were left, drying to a tinder-like state while we wondered if the farmer was going to bale them before they combusted.
One day, we heard a Scottish MP on R4 talk about the potential risk of fire in the rural area he represented. He voiced the complaints of some of his constituent farmers, who moaned the government should be asking them for advice about how to tackle the risk of wildfires. Barely an hour later, I read a report from the Fire Service which stated that seven out of nine major fires they’d dealt with that week were agricultural ones. Maybe farmers aren’t the ideal people to turn to for fire prevention advice.
Last week, the fire risk was finally turned into bales, something I watched with nostalgic interest as it reminded me of helping with the harvest on my aunt and uncle’s farm; although, they never owned a machine that neatly stacked the bales for them.
Nick at the watering hole.
A decorative bowl in the garden acts as an essential watering hole for birds, mostly sparrows who behave like unruly children messing around in a paddling pool. Nick the Woodpigeon (named because he looks like a Nick Parks construct) behaves far more sensibly, waddling across the garden a couple of times a day to dip his beak into the water three or four times before waddling away again.
It has rained a couple of times over the last few weeks, but these were pathetic, disappointing downpours, just enough to perfume the air with petrichor. On one of these, typically, we were without the car. It was in the garage in Wellington for its annual service, so we were on foot, catching the bus to spend the day In Taunton. It was grey and drizzly when we left Wellington (this was forecast, so I had a light rain jacket and Andy carried a brolly) and sunny and hot in Taunton, just twenty minutes away. There was a short, sharp downpour in Taunton mid-morning, catching out many shoppers who were only wearing shorts and T-shirts, presumably because they listened to the BBC’s no-South West weather reports. One man, on seeing Andy’s brolly, muttered, ‘Don’t let my wife see that, I told her she wouldn’t need a brolly today.’ The downpour, more a warm shower, didn’t last long.
We always had one of these when we lived abroad. This is the first time we’ve needed one here.
Incidentally, the car failed its MOT for the most ridiculous reason. There wasn’t enough oomph in the windscreen washers, probably because they were clogged up with dust. An employee told us, somewhat apologetically, if it were a robot checker it would probably have passed. Bring on more AI, I say. A change of nozzles, a two-minute job, was all that was required to fix the problem. But this left us car-less for two days.
The rain finally turned up yesterday, at 16:00. Listening to the gentle pitter patter against the window reminded me of being enchanted watching April showers after a long dry winter during our first year on Tenerife.
By 17:00, the sky was blue again.
