Rain, rain...

It's raining. Just like it does at home except it is not so cold. 'My mountain' is being contorted by the smouldering mist raging up its familiar face before falling, yet again, as rain in a fit of temper. If I was a geography teacher I would probably get quite excited about such a brilliant example of the precipitation cycle. But I'm not a geography teacher and it just feels like a very wet day at home, which is quite nice actually.

The planned trip to Bellingen Market was postponed and I made a quick trip to town in Betsy (the new-to-me car), who promptly, but conveniently died 500 metres from the garage where I bought her. Turns out that neither the fuel gauge or the fuel light works, so as I am congratualing myself on the fuel ecomony of my randonly selected car, it is actually running on fumes. Suddenly that 1000km trip is looking more interesting.

When I got back George and Jean had decided that today was a go-slow day and the wood stove in the living room was lighting. We lunched on one of George's signature soups; a divine pumpkin, sweet potato and coconut milk combination.

I've just put a loaf of bread in the oven and have a large pot of deliciously syrupy fruit stewing on the kitchen stove. The house smells of comfort and contentment. Sometimes it's not just the garden that needs a rainy day. And, there is talk of watching 'Jean De Florette' later. 

Not bad for a wet weekend.