I: Into Exeter, In The Rain

Rain falls, heavy silver drops from a lead sky. Not gold, or the clouds would be truly skilful alchemists. The windscreen wipers slosh, the traffic ahead disappears into dense water. 

Our vehicle is squashed into the road with all the vehicles of the people who have looked at the downpour and decided the camping trip must end. 

We bypass backed up queues, sneaking into the old city of Exeter on an old single-track road, past the ancient twisted oak, past the wall the Romans built, when the oak was a slip of a sapling. 

There is one last parking space waiting. 

Run through the rain into Great-Granma’s flat and a row of hugs. Little grandson, aged two and one quarter, leans on his Uncle’s lap, listening to our chatter. We pile up our plates with two kinds of quiche and watch him drift to a standing sleep.