View from a Denser Roofed Shelter

As I sat in my car, ready for the off, I distinctly recall dismissing the idea that I should waste a minute and return to the office to retrieve my hat.

So I left, and headed across town, halting at the end of a row of houses at the foot of that small, raised area, they call the Campion Hills. I was looking for some park railings I had photographed a decade ago, with a tree trunk, ivy and tar spotted sycamore leaves in the foreground. I walked the broader path to the heights above Leamington, by the recently created BMX track, and then leaving the summit green behind, wheeling around Black Lane, Lillington, where a muddy path re-entered on the tops. This path took me to one of the radio masts, where, crossing exposed tree roots, and continuing along, I re-discovered the railings. I remembered that in the photograph a railing post bore someone's initials. So I searched for the post and think I found it. At least, a post with someone's initials on, in white as before.

It was around this position that I heard a crack of lightning and then, no more than a second or two later, a blast of thunder. It may have sounded ominous, but where I was standing, it was dry. But that was not to last. It began to rain. It rained harder and still harder, and whereas amongst trees, it became necessary for me to find a denser roofed shelter. I found one shortly, but the intensity of the rainfall foretold that in due course the shelter would give way. So I teetered around, hesitating quite what to do and chastising myself for not getting that hat. One thing I was sure of was that I could not stay put for ever more.

Back by the mast, still under cover after a fashion, I could see how heavy it was pelting. The noise of the downpour grew louder, interspersed with more crackles and thunder, and shortly after that, my head was whipped with hail the size of grapes. Rain coursed down my head and into my eyes with an irritating sting. I unzipped my coat, took my arms out of the sleeves, and raised the coat over my head. There was no way I was going to retrace my way to Black Lane, I was soaked as it was so there was nothing much to save from water. I set out across the top over sodden grass, with leaves sticking to my shoes. From here I again saw the view over Leamington, this time with the town taking a good lashing. Descending to the car, my trousers now cold and wet-tight over the thighs like spandex, the scene below was quite different, with drain covers now vanished and replaced with duck ponds.

By when I reached the car I had already resigned to the fact I would have to go home to change. In town I passed grown men clinging to pub porches or returning indoors for another unexpected swift one, and cyclists doing as I had done under trees. Women with umbrellas lowered them to street level for protection from the splatter of charging motorists. Yet as I reached Kenilworth, the storm was already behind me. Blue sky reigned and up popped a rainbow.

At home I changed out of everything. Wet had penetrated through to my socks and my undies. My eyes were still bloodshot from the stings. Should have taken my hat.