Weardale in Springtime

[shewhomust]

Saturday had been bright, warm sunshine, punctuated by black skies, thunder and hail storms. But two weeks from now we will be walking across the last plain and into the Pyrenees, so we didn't want to miss any opportunity to walk. Besides, I wanted to start learning to use my new camera (birthday present). And the forecast said showers would start mid-afternoon, so we chose a favourite walk that would allow us to picnic comparatively early (sitting down in a shower being even less agreeable than walking briskly through one).

This strategy began well; the sun shone as we walked along the river from St John's Chapel; durham_rambler began to wonder whether he really needed the pullover he was wearing, the lambs bounced in the fields, we met a couple carrying great armfuls of rhubarb which they had gathered from an abandoned garden. There was some bitterness when I discovered that by the third photo my card was full, but never mind, this was what I needed to learn about, and since it happened as we reached the mine workings I could delete, reduce image sizes, try again after lunch.

We were perched on the stone walls of the workings when the sky darkened, and pellets of ice cooled our coffee. I'd show you a picture, but... We packed our belongings up hastily, and I framed a picture of the drifts of primroses and violets on the spoil heap behind us - and the camera informed me it was out of power. (Which may be where my picture of a coffee mug half full of ice has gone, too).

So you'll have to take my word for it, and for the last of the sunshine, seen as we reached the top of the hill, brightening the far side of the Dale, beyond a grassy shoulder dotted with heartsease, and a ewe chewing passively while her two lambs head-butted her. And for the puddle which extended across the breadth of the lane, pale caramel coloured with silt, whose wall durham_rambler broke through so that it could drain away, leaving tadpoles scurrying back from the shore.

Not long after, we decided that there was a fine line between "wimping out" and "venturing rashly onto the fells in adverse weather conditions", and that carrying on beyond the forest would involve crossing it. So we turned downhill.

And by the time we got back to the car, the sun had come out again.

Comments

[shewhomust.livejournal.com]

Oh, that's much bigger and better than mine: bruised by hail stones!

Do the mountains encourage this sort of grandstanding from the storms? The most impressive thunderstorms I've ever seen were in Switzerland...

[sekhmets-song.livejournal.com]

In Colorado, at least, the answer is yes. Which we should have thought of before we left for the hike. But, hope springs eternal, or something.
The geology goes like this:
In the cool of the night, the moisture is drawn from the air and settles on the Utah/Arizona desert planes. The sun evaporates this moisture, thus reliably creating a source of rainclouds every day. The clouds are pushed west by the jet stream toward the Continental Divide (mid-state in Colorado), where they pile up. By mid-afternoon, there is enough energy in the cool rainclouds meeting the warm sunshine to create a (usually) brief but spectacular cloud burst.
The local pool that I used to do my daily workout at, as a youth, would closed down for about an hour every afternoon as the storms would pass through. The lifeguards referred to it as their second lunch break.