As I’m putting on Ghyll’s lead by the door, I hear rolling thunder. I used to hear thunder a lot, but for whatever reason we don’t get much thunder or lightning in the UK. I put on my waterproof trousers: I got them for the Fellsman but then wound up not needing them.

Ghyll balks in the rain at the end of the drive, but by the time we reach the field, a gap in the clouds blows over us and we’re granted a brief spell of sun. The grass is wet and the baked ground has developed a thin slick film of clay. Puddles gather here and there. Everything’s fragrant: I sneeze.