The walk

Heavy rain during the night, very welcome. You could almost hear the trees and plants sighing with relief in the morning.

Our Sunday walk started off in dappled sunshine.

Blossom everywhere, petals from the horse chestnut candelabra floating  down like pink and white snowflakes.

The little Ouseburn, swollen and coffee-coloured, was rushing noisily.

The wild garlic was everywhere, crisply green and white.

Further upstream, all was calm.

This is the scene of yesterday's tragedy - Flossie's favourite ball rolled down a steep bank and was lost.

But today she found a replacement in the undergrowth, a nice new ball. It stayed clean for about 30 seconds.

And she was clearly very pleased with it. Tosca doesn't share Flossie's enthusiasm for a ball.

We met our friend Holly and her owner. Holly's coat is a colour that tells me just how mucky Flossie really is beneath that camouflaging black coat. They both love mud and water.

Holly is placid and plodding, but Flossie watches her like a hawk, because she's quick to snaffle a ball that rolls her way, but Holly obligingly hands it over.

We turned back for home, noting that the dreaded Japanese knotweed is taking over with indecent haste. Almost impossible to eradicate by digging, trials of a natural control of this invader are underway in parts of Britain.

It looks light and delicate now; in weeks it will have ugly, thick, mottled stems, and have smothered everything around it.

But there's cow parsley (Queen Anne's Lace) too.

Flossie is busy. A ball and a stick are easy to manage.

And this is why Flossie often smells faintly of garlic....

The last opportunity to swim in deep water.

Flossie likes to keep the Ouseburn free of plastic bottles. She's trying to get two in her mouth at once here, but alas, even enthusiasm and a big mouth won't do it.





She delivers the first, and returns for the second.

Such a sense of civic duty!

But there is thunder, drawing closer. The sky is darkening. We have to get home!

Flossie charges ahead, leaving wet footprints.

We take the steep short cut.

Little legs need a little break halfway up the slope.

Can we outrun the rain? No.

Flossie tries to persuade us to go back into the Dene. Weather-proof, that girl.

It's raining and blowing hard now. My shoes squelch, my clothes are soaked.

Tosca hates rain more than anything else.

And decides to make a run for it.

We reach home, wring ourselves out, get dried (them) and changed (me), and the sun comes out again.

A nice hide chew is what's needed after such a drama.

"What drama was that? No drama here." Cats are so sensible about weather.

British weather. You've got to love it.