The Pause After the Downpour

There is a specific kind of tired that comes from finishing a nightshift at 7am. It’s a grey, woolly feeling where the edges of the day don't quite line up. You sleep in shifts, you wake up groggy, and you look out the window hoping for a reason to stay on the sofa.

For 30 hours, Llantwit Major had been relentless. Just a solid wall of Welsh rain, the sort that bounces off the tarmac and makes the gutters work for a living.

Then, quite suddenly, it stopped. The silence was almost louder than the rain.

Toby, naturally, didn't care about the meteorology, but he knew the routine. The rain had stopped; therefore, the walk must start. Jayne, as usual, was already finding the boots.

The paths had largely given up, so we improvised. Llantwit in its "waterworld" phase.

We headed out towards the fields. The world was impossibly green—saturated, heavy, and smelling of damp earth and old leaves.

It wasn't a normal walk. The drainage had given up hours ago, turning the usual paths into a series of navigational choices. We picked our way through the edges, watching the water sit still and heavy on the grass.

It was quiet. The birds were keeping their heads down, and the only sound was the squelch of boots and Toby splashing through puddles that were masquerading as lakes.

Farm lights coming on. The specific point in the walk where you stop looking at the view and start thinking about the thermostat.

That quiet, purple hour before the sun actually commits to setting. The river had effectively decided to become a lake for the evening.

The moment the noise stopped. 30 hours of rain, followed by this sudden, heavy silence.

There’s a rhythm to walking with Jayne. She has a pace—steady, purposeful, designed to get the legs moving. I have a pace that is largely dictated by "Oh, hang on, look at that light."

She stopped. I stopped. Toby sighed, or at least looked like he was sighing.

The clouds were beginning to bruise purple. The water on the fields wasn't just a nuisance anymore; it had become a mirror. It’s strange how a flooded field, which is essentially an agricultural headache, becomes the most beautiful thing in the valley if you catch it at 4pm on a Monday.

he only upside to a waterlogged field is that it doubles the sunset.

We reached the point where the water met the light properly. It wasn't a polite sunset; it was deep and moody, burning off the last of the storm.

I took the photo. Jayne waited, hands in pockets, watching the sky. We didn't say much. You don't really need to when you've walked the same paths a thousand times. You just nod at it. Good one, that.

By the time we hit the coast, the light was fading fast. The sea was doing what the sea does here—churning away, indifferent to the calm inland.

Down by the coast, the Atlantic hadn’t quite got the memo about the weather clearing up.

The turn back towards town is always the coldest part of the walk. The adrenaline of the sunset fades, the nightshift fatigue creeps back in, and you realise your socks might not be quite as waterproof as the label promised.

But Llantwit does "winter evening" very well. As we came off the muddy tracks and onto the pavement, the streetlights were reflecting off the wet stone. Everything was glittering.

Back on dry land. Wet stone always wears the lights better than dry stone.

We walked past the shops, the windows glowing orange against the blue dark. It felt festive, but in that quiet, local way. No fanfare, just warmth spilling out onto the wet street.

The specific orange glow of a shop window that looks impossibly warm when you’ve just spent two hours in a muddy field.

The goal, as always, was The White Hart.

You can walk for fitness, or for fresh air, or because the dog demands it. But really, you walk so that sitting down afterwards feels like an achievement.

The finish line. Toby knows this door leads to biscuits, and we know it leads to a pint.

The White Hart is civilized enough to welcome the dog, even when he’s bringing half the field in with him. Toby trotted in with us, looking for a spot near the heat, and we followed.

The heat hit us first—that thick, low-ceilinged warmth of a proper pub. Then the smell of hops and damp coats. I ordered a beer. Jayne ordered hers. We sat down, knees slightly stiff, cheeks burning from the cold air.

It wasn't an epic adventure. It was just a Monday dog walk in the wet. But looking at the pint, and looking at Jayne, it felt like exactly the right way to wake up.