Monday morning, rain is lashing down as it has done for months, I can see again (and I'm still at the stage of really appreciating it rather than taking it for granted) and I'm at my desk trying to get down to some writing. But I'm just not in the mood.
I keep looking out of the window, and going downstairs to check on our leaks and drips. The countryside here is a bit flood-y, but nothing worse than saturated ground and controlled holding of water in the valley. On the television news are awful pictures of the West Country and the Thames Valley where villages are sinking in the rising water. People are angry and upset, and they have every right to be.
In the hope of inspiration, I've been looking through my photos of Faro, taken last summer for local details that might help the new book along. This one got me thinking. It's not just the bright light and shocking pink of the flower, but the way the tree has grown too big for the pot and the front part has been broken off leaving a cross-section of what normally wouldn't be seen. I like the sense of looking inside. The point is, that we can contain nature for only so long.
One of the themes in the Faro novel will be the shifting sands of the outlying islands that are constantly being redrawn by the force of the Atlantic drift along southern Portugal. I'm wondering now whether the south-westerly storms have had an effect there too. Time to do some internet research. I think I'm ready to start work.