The weather witches of Wales were up to their mischief. When the children went back to school they brewed up ten days of sunshine. They watched us preparing for guests from the far east, and waited just long enough for them to settle in with a cup of tea before sending down the knives and forks.

Our guests usually sleep in a brick house. Caravan rain kept them awake but they marvelled at it’s strangeness. It’s a new kind of rain that comes in drubbing squalls then vanishes. It’s different to rain in Scunthorpe.

We took them to see the green hills and lakes, and they looked at the clouds steam-drifting up from the valleys. We watched the rain moving in from the coast, a dazzling silent white shimmer. We sheltered under overhangs from the old women and sticks, and gentle cloud wisps made dew on gorsey cobwebs.

Sometimes we’d come out of shops after poking around old oil lamps and books, and the road was gleaming pewter from another shower just missed.

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