I don't normally feel sorry for myself, but...
The weather has taken a turn away from the Long March towards spring that is February, March, April, and even May and June in Maine. We were getting rain and rotten snow and that grubby, shattered, almost post-apocalyptic Maine landscape of Break-Up. The yard was full of mud, and so were the sheep. The rotten snow was dripping wet and the rivers were bank-full with thin mud and broken ice. The river water looked like iced coffee with chocolate dribbles and (for effect) occasional floating trees.
Starbucks could come up with a commercial version. The Break-up-achino.
But then it all froze. In time.
And, according to the orders of the National Weather Service, Spring will be Postponed for at least a week.
Trouble is, that's the first week of my vacation.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the hemisphere, in my ineffable homeland, the Guardian is having a signs of spring photo contest.
Do they know they have readers in Maine?
Obviously not, or they would be more considerate.
Still, this can't last. Unless the Milankovitch Cycles have gone all awry overnight, Maine will get a proper spring, and then a proper summer, and then a stunning fall, and then the nice white fluffy, relaxing part of winter.
Britain will get rain.
I just need to buck up and wait it out.
Besides, Molly was lying down yesterday when any normal sheep would be standing. And I noticed, as if for the first time, that she is roughly the size of a double-decker bus.
So, there will be lambs.
Lambs are The Best.
For the sake of lambs, I can live with mud.