An invasion wind.

Having spent the last week buffeted by a perpetual gale, grey skies and intermittent rain... finding my smile harder and harder to put on in the morning as I trudge the sodden grass and nettles to feed birds, weed gardens and prune trees... I am darkly amused by the fact that this is often referred to as 'invasion weather'. Unsurprisingly called so because of the prevailing conditions on D-day.
More surprising, perhaps, is the fact that before and since, this time of year is known for its inclemence. chalk that one up as a minus in the wartime planners column.
Taking a look out across the long sweep of rocky, slushy sand into the distant white-chopped grey of the channel yesterday evening, I had pause to glance down at the 3 ducks huddling against the leeward side of a treek-trunk (yes, contrary to the assumption in the expression, ducks do NOT like the rain either), and be thankfull, on all our behalf, that we were in the tree-lined grassy field of 'le chateau', and not a wave-tossed tin-can being pelted with high explosive ammuntion and supersonic hot lead.
Small mercies.

A week of indoor plenty.
Provisions of Onion soup, red wine and Pont Leveque.
As the windows rattle and whistle, time to seek refuge with Nicholas Bouvier, an empty page and a pen... and old cowboy movies.
'Number of people who can tell you what to do. None'
Thanks Yul.