Dune and Dusted

The Boy likes the rain.

He told me or at least I think it was him who spoke through the humid misty deluge which had enveloped us.

The prospect of a shower had threatened to spoil our bike ride earlier on in the afternoon but had thankfully held off until the last bit of the journey home.

It was that quite fine, light rain which does not throw up a physical obstacle but does still dribble down your neck and through as many layers of clothing as you have on to reach skin.

At that latter stage of cycling activity for a sunday we were of the same opinion that we did not mind getting a bit wet. The ambient temperature was , at about 14 Celsius, mild and the rainfall was just that little bit off-cold. It was not even worth stopping and dragging out our rain gear because of our twenty minute ahead appointment with a cup of tea and a warm dry towel.

We had been rained off fully the previous day which was the first time for quite a while that there had been any sustained precipitation to speak of. Banks of clouds had come in from the north this time and in between some bright blue patches of clear sky there had been some ugly, dense and ominous rain filled clusters. Although ending our plans for yet another epic ride the rain was certainly welcome for an already parched looking lawn and borders and it is only April.

Just a few days before we had witnessed a phenomena that I have certainly not ever seen before in this country. The roads and verges out in the countryside had filled up with sand giving an almost beach like appearance. Those fields not recently sewn or with a crop in situ could be seen with a whirling dervish of wind, a mini tornado and vortex dancing around throwing up a real dust storm.

The scene resembled the grainy black and white Pathe News films of the 1930's depression and dust bowl in the United States when farming practices and drought conditions caused the topsoil to be stripped away causing a major environmental disaster even before the accounting for the losses and consequential hardships of those whose primary income and livelihoods had come from the land now upped and gone.

The strange thing about the maelstrom, Yorkshire style, was that it did not affect every field.

The gossamer nature of the aerated soil must have made it very sensitive to a breeze, any slight funnelling of the warm air between tree lined headlands, flanking buildings or even along the ploughed furrows themselves.

The suspended powder was then sifted through the hedgerows and in miniscule particulate form deposited on the side of the road.

In some places usually corresponding to a dip in the topography there was a proper drift and it was necessary for traffic to slow to a crawl to negotiate through the newly formed dunes.

On a ride out in the previous week me and The Boy had been whipped almost raw in one of these abrasive flurries and it was a most unpleasant experience. It was necessary to turn our faces away from the wind whilst still trying to keep a look out for any holes or obstructions in the road. We must have looked like swimmers doing the crawl and gasping for air.

Almost as soon as the sand storm hit us did it seemed to abate. We had also by then turned a corner to have the full advantage of whatever strength of wind had previously caused such discomfort. It took a few forced blinks and attempts to squeeze out a crocodile tear for any stubborn grains to be coaxed out of our eyes and a bit of salivating and snorting to free up the mucus membranes. We must have looked quite freak show to any onlookers in the performance of these actions

So in the course of a few days we had been both sand blasted and steam cleaned. Such is the lot of enthusiastic cyclists. Whatever next?