A rainy day such as we’re enduring today permits me to withdraw from my customary – and admittedly tedious – habits. Outdoor cycling, for one, is adjusted to the concrete plateau of the subterranean tomb. It also enables me to linger beneath the duvet for longer than I prefer, on the theory that an occcasional day of prolonged relaxation is never a bad thing. A rainy day further stimulates those delicate but mesmerizing thoughts – reflections upon the state of one’s union with the Universe at large, the uncommon withdrawal from the pressing demands of a monotonous agenda into the realm of unrestrained contemplation and wistful conjecture. The raindrops on the windows subdue the world beyond, as does the grey atmosphere discolour the sunlight. The shades of springtime are uniquely contrasted in the diminished effulgence, distinguishing the flourishing greenery while softening and darkening the river, its once placid sheen now fettered with creases and distinctive arrows by the whistling southern wind.

When – after breakfast – I completed my basement racetrack model of precisely 4 Kms on my Pronto tricycle – and more as an idle speculation than a determined eagerness – I called my partner to ask whether he’d care to join me in a drive about the countryside. He said he would. So we headed northward along Martin St N onto the Blakeney Road and then Panmure Road. Panmure Road is, to those of us familar with the local rural vernacular – a “good address”. The winding, up and down road eventually leads directly to the similarly renowned Village of Dunrobin along the Ottawa River. We however curtailed our aimless wandering at Carp Village whence we returned to Almonte along March Road past the Irish league in Corkery and the Burnt Lands Provincial Park. As summary as it was, our midday jaunt was a reminder of the sudden breadth of landscape only minutes from nearby communities.

Back at my desk, recovering from the extraordinary magnificence of this minor outing, the air had begun to clear. The hitherto flat grey sky translated to a mass of cumulative clouds interrupted by nourishing shards of blue. The raindrops on the windows evaporated, the balcony door was ajar and the birds were chirping.  As the blundering day evolved – like an insect on a rose leaf – I read a bit of Country Life, its beloved English stone and the Cotswolds, then drifted into that afternoon somnolence from which one returns with remarkably renewed commitment.