Christmas is coming, (in case anybody hadn’t noticed) and nearly every card I get has snow on it. What is it about that white stuff that gets us all so hopeful? In Britain we border on the delusional about snow. It’s what we all want for Christmas, but we rarely get it. We don’t have white Christmases; we have wet ones; sleety, windy, breezy, damp ones. And if the weather forecast is anything to go by, we are in for some tremendous gales today. Michael Alexander Chaney put some snow scenes from literature in his blog. I’ve got some rain ones. Get your brollies out.
The air was so heavy with water, that not till they had passed Frog’s Bridge did they hear the sweet, dull jangle of sound that told them that the ringers were practising their Christmas peal; it drifted through the streaming rain with an aching and intolerable melancholy, like the noise of the bells of a drowned city pulsing up through the overwhelming sea.
The Nine Tailors, Dorothy L Sayers.
Then came a wind and a rain, and the wind whipped the rain and hail about in every direction, so that an overhanging rock was no protection at all. Soon they were getting drenched and their ponies were standing with their heads down and their tails between their legs, and some of them were whinnying with fright. They could hear the giants guffawing and shouting all over the mountainsides.
The Hobbit, JRR Tolkien
Though the hygrometer was within 33 ½ degrees of extreme dryness, or 66 ½ from extreme humidity, thick clouds formed round us, which obliged us to think of retreating: in a little time, the summit of the mountain was surrounded by them: they spread and covered the whole horizon: a premature night surprised us in a very dangerous road, and we suffered one of the most violent tempests I ever experienced, of wind, rain, hail, and thunder.
Thoughts on Meteorology, M de Luc
My troubles began when I joined my Highland battalion in India and had to have a batman from the ranks of my own platoon. No doubt I had been spoiled in India, but the contrast was dramatic. Where I had been accustomed to waking to the soft murmur of ‘Chota hazri, sahib’, and having a pialla of perfectly-brewed tea and a sliced mango on my bedside table, there was now a crash of hobnailed boots and a raucous cry of ‘Erzi tea! Some o’ it’s spilt, and there’s nae sugar. Aye, an’ the rain’s oan again.’
The Complete McAuslan, George MacDonald Fraser,