Dry South, Wet North

I have come down for a few days’ holiday to our illustrious capital. Unlike my visit a few years back during which I marched from palace to palace, museum to gallery, age is slowing my pace and I am taking things in a far gentler stride. This is aided and abetted by a large blister I gained while walking to chapel on Sunday, for which I wore the correct boots but not the correct socks. London’s climate is far dryer and warmer than that to which we northmen are accustomed, which is good news when one is limping about. Yet the parks resemble deserts as the lawns have turned brown for want of rain. We in Lancashire and Yorkshire may have too much rain, drizzle and darkened skies, but our pasturelands are lush the year round, our hills verdant without ceasing. Ofttimes, life is stormy and tempestuous, but it is then that we grow. Little wonder the Lord would have us go through the storm, even while He appears asleep.

Above: Russell Square, Bloomsbury