Jonny McCambridge: After weeks of rain, the sun finally makes an appearance…with predictable results

There are stories in the news warning that there may be a shortage of local spuds this year. My Da is unable to get any useful work done in his allotment.

The little stream in the road near our home has burst its banks and flooded the nearby fields.

The grass in the garden is several inches high, snaking around my ankles as I wait for the dry Saturday which will permit the first cut of the year. Clothes continue to be dried over radiators and on the backs of chairs.

The terrible weather seems to be the only topic of conversation among parents at the school gates.

"Wet again”, is the inevitable opening gambit of one of the other fathers.

“Aye”, I invariably reply.

The swing in the back garden is not getting the use that we have come to expect.

My son watches raindrops roll down the panes of glass in the conservatory as he impatiently waits for a break in the seemingly immovable clouds.

And then, just when it seems that all hope is lost, there is the promise of both a glimmer of hope and sunshine.

I think it is on the Tuesday morning that the forecast first tentatively suggests that there could be a fine weekend to come.

As the week progresses Angie and Cecilia become more confident in their predictions that the sun is finally going to shine.

This leads me towards a flurry of activity. A dry weekend in this current climate cannot be wasted. We have to make the most of it, we have to get outside.

I spend several days in conversation with my wife about what we will do.

I wake early on the Saturday. The first thing I notice is that there is no sound of rain pattering off the window. Instead I hear the birds singing, a chirping chorus which welcomes me gloriously into the day.

I find myself wondering do they always sing like this and if so, why I don’t always notice it. Perhaps they sing a little bit louder on a fine day.

I stumble downstairs in my pyjamas and go into the backyard. It is cool, with a slight breeze, but it is not raining.

It is grey but I look skywards and see some breaks in the cloud where the sun is valiantly trying to break through. I make a coffee and drink it in the open air.

Later in the morning my son appears. He asks if he can go on his swing.

The ground below is still squelchy and I know he will likely turn the garden into a ploughed field, but I’m still not going to deny him. I stand and watch him for several minutes as he swings enthusiastically. I marvel at how tall my son has become and how high he swings.

I’m grateful for the deep holes my Da dug in the garden and filled with concrete to ensure that the frame of the swing would not move, no matter what tensile pressures are exerted upon it.

In the afternoon we are in Newcastle. It is a place to go on good days, although it is also observed that the temperature drops by a couple of degrees on the coast. I am still wearing a light jacket.

Our plans for a walk and play on the beach are not fulfilled as the tide is in, leaving only the rocky-covered surface of the shoreline exposed. Instead, we walk along the promenade, marvelling at the number of motorbikes which have descended on the town.

We are drawn towards the playpark. My son heads straight for the swing (it’s always the swing) and urges me to push him. I do this for around half an hour until I am sweating freely and my arms begin to ache.

We find a bench with a good view of the sea. My wife buys ice cream and coffees and we sit silently enjoying the scenery and the bustle around us.

Then it happens. The persistence of the sun burns away enough of the clouds to enable it to make its long-awaited appearance. Everything looks immediately altered under its glare.

Now, I have a shadow. I take off my jacket and feel the warmth on my skin, noticing how the colour of the hairs on my forearm seems to have changed from dark to fair. My son’s ice cream begins to melt, sending streams of milky liquid running down his sleeve.

"That’s the heat now,” I say to my wife.

“It’s only 13 degrees,” she responds.

“Still,” I respond. “It’s nice to see it.”

The sun maintains its dominance for about 15 minutes before the clouds regroup and blanket us in grey again. There are a few sporadic outbreaks of sunshine through the rest of the afternoon, but my jacket remains on.

At night we are enjoying some rest after a full day. My wife and I watch TV while my son plays video games. We are all tired. I am reclining regally on the sofa, back in my pyjamas.

Although I can’t quite seem to get comfortable. What starts as a slight feeling of nuisance becomes a more prolonged sense of irritation. I move about for several minutes before I finally give up and go to the hallway to examine myself in the mirror.

“What are you doing?” my wife calls after me.

“I think I’m burnt.”

“Burnt? Burnt on what?”

“I mean sunburnt.”

“Sunburnt? But there was hardly any sun?”

I have always had the palest of skin. I should always be aware of my need to protect myself against the conditions.

I come back into the room. My wife examines the red patches on my arms and my gleaming forehead and nose.

“Yes,” she confirms. “You’re burnt.”