Where I live in Scotland, the burn is almost overflowing. It is lapping at the top edge of stone blocks and swamping the undergrowth. The lower branches of trees dip below the churning surface, leaves streaming in the water. I stop at all the bridges to peer down; the water rushes so fast it’s a foamy blur. The dog pays no attention, more interested in nosing through the damp leaves. She steps so close to the edge of the bank that she has to be pulled back – the rushing burn is directly beneath her and it’s a steep drop.
Less than a week ago, I dreamed I was standing on the very edge of the river, at risk of falling in. It was the same ‘milky tea’ colour as this, and the ground was slippery with mud. I asked a friend to support me while I edged away, but he moved off absent-mindedly, and I had to get away on my own. I’ve always dreamed about water – about rivers, tidal waves and floods. The scene is frightening but familiar.
The toadstools are loving this weather too – I passed a huge golden-brown patch that looked like an explosion of boils.