Nowhere Near Milkwood
“A fine drizzle had swept in from the west, chilling them even through their waterproof clothing and obscuring their view of the horizon. As Peter stepped forward, he sank a good ten inches into the soft clay that had been churned almost to liquid by the rains of the previous night. Cold mud surged over the top of his boots and forced itself under his toes.
“I hate this country!” he wailed.
Claire placed a comforting arm on his shoulder, but he pulled away with a scowl, losing his balance in the... process and falling backward into the mire. He flapped aimlessly for a minute before Claire, struggling to repress a laugh, helped him to his feet. Once again, he shrugged her off and gritted his teeth. “Yes, I hate this country. And I hate you as well!”
“The holiday was your idea,” Claire pointed out.
She turned her face into the oncoming sheets of drizzle. They washed over them with a regular pulse, as if dancing to the rhythm their feet had made earlier on the moors. It seemed as if someone was draping a succession of veils over the landscape, each veil a fraction of a millimetre thicker than its predecessor.MoreLess
“I hate this country!” he wailed.
Claire placed a comforting arm on his shoulder, but he pulled away with a scowl, losing his balance in the... process and falling backward into the mire. He flapped aimlessly for a minute before Claire, struggling to repress a laugh, helped him to his feet. Once again, he shrugged her off and gritted his teeth. “Yes, I hate this country. And I hate you as well!”
“The holiday was your idea,” Claire pointed out.
She turned her face into the oncoming sheets of drizzle. They washed over them with a regular pulse, as if dancing to the rhythm their feet had made earlier on the moors. It seemed as if someone was draping a succession of veils over the landscape, each veil a fraction of a millimetre thicker than its predecessor.MoreLess
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