Today we're in a different spot in our manuscript, in the midst of a storm in the Lake District.
He had played enough chess for a lifetime. Gabriel had decided, against his better judgment, to go on out into the storm, to photograph English weather at its worst. It might make for a decent picture. So he got warmly dressed, borrowed an oilskin trenchcoat from the house, and took one camera with him, leaving through the front entrance, covering his head with the coat’s hood. The rain was still coming down hard, the wind driving it down on the lawn before him, which was drenched with two days worth of rain. At least we’re on high ground,he gratefully thought. He walked down the path, heard thunder in the distance, felt the rain pelting him. Crossing the small stone footbridge, he looked at the stream below, an angry torrent in the rain instead of a gentle brook. He photographed it, and moved beyond, passing into a meadow. The plants and grasses were thoroughly soaked.