The smell & sound of rain

If you visit my blog regularly, you’re already aware of the affinity I have for bodies of water. I’ve often said that I’d be happy living in either a shed near the water or in a boat in the middle of nowhere. One thing I’ve not often mentioned is the smell and sound of rain either late at night or early in the morning.

There are three different occasions on which this particular feeling comes to mind. I write ‘feeling’ because it extends beyond all senses and touches something deeper.

First was about four years back when Alisa & Ryan were married in Lake Placid. A friend and I stayed at the Trail Head’s Inn in the Bigelow Room. I’ve noticed that the Inn has since changed ownership; while there, it was owned and run by a young couple from Australia who had a beautiful little boy.

My beautiful friend ended up staying with some of our friends at the Blueberry cottage (a common affliction of weddings?) and so I had our room all to myself. The room was in fact split into two areas, one of which was called the ‘Adirondack sleeping porch’.

The porch was once a balcony with an old, squeaky and washed out grey wood floor and a very thin steeply sloped wooden roof. The railing of the balcony was a faded white painted wood, and all open areas of the balcony were covered with a thin fine green mesh. The room held the four following items: a queen-sized bed with white bed coverings & a duvet, a small old and worn rug which – I later found out – was purchased from a Moroccan market, one forest green reading chair and a beautiful antique cherry wood night table.

This room sat on the opposite side of the entrance and where the family lived, and so was completely silent. Due to the height of the balcony, I couldn’t see anything but the forest’s tree tops as I sat on the bed. For the duration of the night and the next morning, it rained and all I could smell was that rain and its translation on the forest surrounding me. I was alone in the world for a few hours and I was mesmerized. There wasn’t a sound beyond this and between the haze and the mist was a very cool breeze that kept me buried beneath the duvet until around 11 a.m. the next morning. To get back into the room, I had to tiptoe across the floor or risk freezing my feet. Honestly, it was heaven and I’m glad my girl found alternative lodging (as I’m sure she was the evening prior, but not necessarily the morning following…).

The second time was the first morning Dianna and I found ourselves in Scotland. We’d decided that, since we’d be traveling overnight, we’d not make any plans for that first day, instead opting to play it by ear and get to know Glasgow at our leisure. We were at Mrs. Morrison’s Craigielea Guesthouse (highly recommended, for those with eclectic taste: 35 Westercraig’s Street) in one of the second floor’s largest bedrooms.

This is the entrance of our little home while in Glasgow:



The floor of the entire B&B was covered in soft furry plaid and there were at least 100 different pieces of artwork lining the walls from ceiling to floor (Mr. Morrison is an artist).

Our room had attention deficit disorder in the form of a stand up shower, sink, fireplace, dining table, two queen-sized beds pushed together, several dressers, a gigantic Chinese lantern hanging from the ceiling, two reading chairs, a television, one too many paintings on the wall and different paint colors all over the walls. We loved it.

I like to sleep next to windows, otherwise I find that I get claustrophobic. During all times of the year, the window remains open. Mrs. Morrison’s window had no screen and was enormous. It did have a thin sheer white curtain beneath three other heavier ones and so we pulled back the heavy curtains and left the window wide open with only the sheer covering it. I woke up to the sound of that Scottish rain and found that because we’d left the window wide open, the room was filled with a fine mist. It was a luscious morning to wake up.

This is my side of the bed, next to the window:


& here’s what you saw if looking out of our window:


The third and last time the scent and sound of rain washed out the world was two nights ago, Friday evening. I’d finished writing my final exam and walked the two hours home so that I could unwind and get my thoughts in order. Having taken a shower, I was utterly exhausted and don’t actually remember getting into my bed. At some point in the middle of the night, I was awakened by my friend and all of his welcome trappings, including the chilly breeze and the way the pavement talks back to him.

Although exhausted still, I sat up in bed next to the open window and was kept company by rain for the next hour and before I fell asleep again.