Incurable Pluviophilia

It’s the one thing I miss when I’m away from Ireland. As much as I love the sunshiny heat that soaks into your bones overseas, when I come home I can’t wait for the rain.

When I got home from Italy last year my heart thrilled to hear the thud of raindrops on our flat roof. When I got home from South Africa I threw the French doors open so that I could hear it more clearly and savour the smells of wet concrete and soil mingling together.

Each big birthday so far has offered the gift of precipitation: my 18th and 21st birthdays delivered snow, my 30th birthday roared into being with heavy rain and howling wind.

Rain is therapeutic. When heavy raindrops smack the ground it feels like a massage, pummelling my stress and tension away. Puddles beg to be jumped in. Rivulets run down the sides of streets. Clouds of brooding colours occupy the sky, contrasting that brilliant blue.

On rare occasions, thunder and lightning collaborate to create a display of light and sound. In North Carolina (I’ll grant her the prize for regular thunder storms), I loved sitting on the porch steeping myself in the sounds of plummeting rain and thunder. I could have stayed all night.

Do I like being caught in it? Never! But I hope that rain will never fail to fascinate me.


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