After days of glorious sunshine the weather moved in, and on Sunday rain clouds were piled grouchily on the horizon. By mid morning, everything had a slate grey cast to it.
“Let’s go to the beach,” Flemming’s Dad said.
The last time we were in Thorup, it was really foggy. When we got there this time, the boats were all sitting snug on the sand, and the sea behind them was brokenly striped in rushing foam and dark water.
My hat blew off my head into a puddle when I stepped out of the car. We’d come down to get some fish from the shop, but it was closed.
With the main mission foiled, we enjoyed the coming of the rain instead, at the edge of the water. Ten minutes to run around the boats before the storm front swept in and needled us with cold rain.
There’s nothing like the beach during a storm.
I’ve not been in northern Europe this late in the year, and I am thankful for relatively gentle introduction I’m getting to autumn at these latitudes. I have no experience with real cold. The only winters I’ve lived through are those of Perth, Australia, and people tell me all the time how those are akin to a gentle spring day at more extreme latitudes.
I’ve experienced unending sunshine the months I’ve been around Europe (except for those few days in Scotland and Ireland), but I suspect these grey days are here to stay until I leave.
Hanging on to the last of summer in my head.