Ten minutes at the field gate

I got as far as the field gate on Sunday before the next shower arrived. The ridge ahead was disappearing into grey and there was a good, sensible path back to a dry coat. Instead I tucked the camera under my jacket and stood with my back to the wind. It was not a particularly noble decision. I had only just got there.

For several minutes the view was barely a view at all. The near field was green, the next one was a greyer green, and the far hill had been rubbed out. Water gathered on the top rail of the gate. Every so often a drop found its way under my cuff, which gave me something definite to complain about.

Then the far hill came back. A narrow strip of light moved across it, reached the shoulder of the ridge, and stopped just above the darker field. The rain was still falling where I stood. That was the part I had not expected: a perfectly ordinary wet foreground, with this small, warm interruption beyond it. I made two pictures before the light moved on.

The one I kept has more sky than I would usually leave. Cropping it made the bright strip seem too important. With the cloud above it, the whole thing feels closer to the morning itself: mostly waiting, with something brief in the middle.

I walked home by the short loop. There were no more photographs, but a bird called once from the bare hedge and the rain finally stopped near the last stile. The cuffs of my coat took until Monday to dry. I should probably do something about them before the next walk.