Little wonder I overslept. No sun streaming through the blinds, just a day that bears the marks of winter. The air smells of burnt toffee, and pricks of moisture bounce of the skin. The clouds have covered the mountain, and the silence is eerie. The birds are not singing and hopping in and out of the dogs' water bowl as they have been since they started to fledge. Only the bells around the neck of the sheep, who are out later due to the coolness of the morning, occasionally break the silence with doleful clanging. I have pulled up all the blinds that had been lowered to keep the sun's heat out, and the grey light is seeping in.
Yesterday had been cloudy too, but not like this. Occasional shards of blue and brilliant sun had broken up the grey monotony. It is forecast to burn off later, so I shall make the most of the cloud cover and do energetic things this morning. The hot afternoon can be devoted to the pleasures of reading and writing.