I take my sketchbook out of the drawer, pick up the nearest pen, and sketch the view from the studio window; a corner of muddy meadow at the edge of the wood, under the grey skies of a dreary late afternoon.
Within a few minutes the drizzle has developed into gentle lashings of rain. The girls continue feeding the ponies.
The cool air smells of rain and woodland. There's a soft pattering and the swish of wind on the bare branches of the ashes and willows.
Talking of Wind in the Willows, I'm reminded of the opening scene of Kenneth Grahame's classic where the mole is getting tired of his stay-at-home indoor life and longing for the great outdoors. I know how he felt.