But this is Galicia.
Galicia is green, and that green has to come from somewhere. Rain. Lots of rain. I’ve read somewhere that the average yearly rainfall on Galicia is more than Manchester. This is probably true.
Before living here, I didn’t really occupy myself that much with the weather. Sure, it would be inconvenient perhaps if it was raining when I wanted to go out, and of course sunshine is much nicer but apart from that, it wasn’t that big of a deal.
Here it is.
Here, the weather has a bigger impact on daily life. Logical, it affects crops, sowing times, harvesting times, the animals, wood gathering.
It even affects slaughter: chorizo needs cold crisp dry weather. Too humid and the chorizo doesn’t cure quickly enough.
Although my life isn’t as outdoor dependent now as it was in the beginning (we no longer cook on wood and we have water connected to the house now) I still find myself checking different weather websites several times a day, a bit like one would with horoscopes, just in case the other prediction is more suitable.
The last few years it seems the weather is all over the place. The predictions change drastically within days. It’s impossible to tell when a season has started or ended. At times it seems everything has descended into a perpetual autumn, but without the gorgeous colours.
The first year we lived here, we were at the beach in April and the potatoes had been in the ground since March. Currently the ground is so soggy that apart from Villager C who always wants to be first in the potato race, no one has planted any yet. And Villager P told me her garlic has drowned. The mimosa already flowered the end of January, convinced it was Spring, the same with many fruit trees. But alas, winter came back.
We were convinced we had more than enough fire wood for winter but we had to order 2 extra tractor loads of wood this year, which was tricky because in the middle of winter all the wood is wet.
Villagers talk about the weather constantly, and hence I do too.
Especially with Villager T, the village clown. We always complain to each other how hot it is and that we want to go to the beach when it’s freezing, and how cold it is and that we have to put the fire on when dogs and cats have reduced themselves to puddles and the tarmac of the lane into the village resembles sticky liquorice.
Summer has to start soon. It has to.
Outside a lonely cricket is chirping. They tend to be the best forecasters. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s wearing a raincoat. Just in case.