Last night, about sixteen seconds after declaring to the world that the absence of rain was beginning to become a problem, the thunder began. At first it was a distant rumble, but as it came closer it seemed to be scaring the light out of the clouds, shaking a month’s worth of water from them as it rolled along.
It was still raining when we left this morning although the thunder had long since departed, and although the land and rivers were no doubt delighted with their respite, there was no noticeable impact on the waterways we travelled.
We moved a few more kilometres today, through just a handful of locks traversing so few kilometres we could count them on our toes without the use of our fingers. We walked further in the evening between the showers than we had moved by boat in the morning.
We are going downhill now, and we love the theatre as we negotiate each lock, descending into some sort of dank cavern, to await the opening of the great clanking gates and some new and wondrous vista.
Not that the vistas are terribly long ones when one is travelling in the rain, but they are always wondrous at least to some degree.
Each time we leave a lock we pinch ourselves to make sure we aren't dreaming and start a new voyage.
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