"Here, have some muddy apples, cows."
It's not the rain; it's the mud. We've just had the rainiest January on record, at least here in Southern England. But it's the mud that's had me at my wits' end. Our garden is now composed of several mud pits, the latest near the fence that was damaged during one of the gales that's accompanied our many storms. When the gardener repaired it he mucked up what was left of the grass, and now it's another spot of ankle-deep mud. I don't even go outside without wellies. I'm seriously considering getting a pair for Sparky. He tracks mud inside, making pawprints all over the kitchen floor—the part that's not covered by throwrugs or towels.
When I saw the cows out near the fence, I grabbed a bag of apples I had chilling in the fridge and my wellies, leaving Sparky inside. They didn't seem to mind that the apples landed in mud.
They don't know it, but they're lucky—there's at least dry land for them to stand on. Cows in Somerset are standing in flooded fields. Farmers are using boats to get to their land.
And somehow, I have turned this into another post whinging about the weather.
