The storm faded away to a distant rumble of thunder over the hills, taking with it the sticky heat of the past few days and leaving us shivering, in wet clothes, under a sheltering oak.
As we emerged, so did the insects. I watched a shield bug ease itself around the edge of a leaf back into the light, picking a path between wobbling water droplets. Spiders abseiled between grass stems, repairing webs. Within a few minutes bumblebees were at work again, shaking rain from water-laden bramble flowers.
The moments after a thunderstorm seem to heighten the sense of smell, perhaps because still, moisture-laden, air becomes saturated with dissolved floral scents. Along a hedgerow, the musky, high-summer, odour of elder blossom and the sweet fragrance of wild roses were especially intense.
A tropical, fruity, aroma rose from the carpet of pineapple weed, Matricaria discoidea, crushed under our feet along the footpath around the edge of a wheat field.
By the time we reached the lane leading to the Meeting of the Waters, the confluence of the rivers Tees and Greta, our clothes had begun to dry and we slackened our pace.
The sun had broken through. A meadow brown butterfly, wings pressed flat on the road, basked in the heat, reluctant to fly until we were a footstep away.
Wisps of steam drifted upwards from the drying asphalt, and convection currents of rising air sucked in a breeze that shook water from hogweed umbels, where hoverflies were already settling to feed.
For some the rain had come as a blessed relief. At the humpback bridge over the Greta we found scores of snails gliding along the walls, leaving glistening trails. After days of drought spent hiding behind a curtain of ivy, the sudden downpour had coaxed garden snails, Helix aspersa, out to graze on the algae coating the wet rocks.
White-lipped snails, Cepaea hortensis, crawled over nettles, protected by their slime from stings as they climbed the stems, intent on reaching the flowers and tender young leaves.
Our walk had begun with the crackle of electricity and a heart-thumping thunderclap overhead. Now the countryside was settling back into the snail’s pace of a drowsy summer afternoon.
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