Four seasons in one day tests the durability of Kevin Page's new shoes. Photo / 123RF
I have recently come into possession of a rather robust pair of manly-looking shoes.
According to Mrs P, the rugged exterior and thick tread on the sole suggest the wearer should easily be able to undertake a hard day’s work. They have that sort of look.
If I’m honest, I’d rather they didn’t suggest that, particularly as I’m quite enjoying my new life on the road in our caravan in semi-retirement.
In fact, I’d be quite happy if their appearance simply suggested a brisk walk on a daily basis with She Who Still Makes Me Smile.
That would be perfectly adequate. Pleasant even.
So, with that in mind, My Beloved and I set off for just such a walk the other day.
Now, it’s entirely possible it’s the same where you are Dear Reader, but of late we have had four seasons in one day weather-wise here. On the morning we set out, however, it was chilly but sunny.
This is important in the context of the story because my new shoes are not waterproof. Sort of.
Don’t get me wrong, I can go out in them if it’s wet and the outer will eventually dry, according to the lady in the shop. Plus I plan to spray some of that waterproofing stuff on, just to help.
But as for the inside. Hmm. Different story, she said.
I should try as best I could to keep water out of them.
Failure to do so could mean a long time drying, she said, and there was always a chance the interior could suffer in the drawn-out drying process.
Anyway, I was confident neither Mrs P or I would need any rain/shower gear on the day of our walk.
In fact, I positively scoffed at her when she wondered aloud whether she should carry a shower jacket “just in case”.
Besides, I said, we’d only be going a couple or three kilometres, a mile or two in old money, so we wouldn’t be away long.
So, with new shoes attached to old feet and with Mrs P, a cold but enthusiastic participant in the adventure, off we went.
Anyway.
We’ve been striding out for 10 minutes or so and I notice a wisp of cloud creeping across the horizon. In another 10 minutes it had blocked the sun.
More crucially, it had brought a whole pack of its mates with it and now the sky looked ominously dark in places.
Typically, the darkest spot seems to be right above us just as we reach the farthest we’d be from safety.
That’s when the first bit of rain hit.
It’s also when I took my new shoes off and stuffed them under my sweatshirt to stay dry. I hadn’t got round to the spray-on waterproofing yet.
No doubt somewhat embarrassed by the barefoot scruff walking beside her, Mrs P fixes me with a, well, rather unimpressed glare as we trundled on.
As it turned out we only managed another 100m before the heavens opened in earnest.
Within minutes we’re both saturated. So, I come up with a plan.
“I’m sure there’s a cafe just round the corner,” I say, trying to ease the tension. “Let’s just drop in there to warm up and let this rain pass,” I say. “It’ll only be a shower.”
Anyway, because this is the way the God’s punish you when you need them the most – that thunder you can hear is them laughing – “just round the corner” turned out to be another 10 minutes away.
And by that time we’d endured two cloudbursts of biblical proportions, wind gusts that felt like they were 300 km/h and a maniacal dog that kept us from getting anywhere near the one tree that offered any shelter in the immediate vicinity.
But again, my new shoes were still dry.
Eventually, looking like two bedraggled shipwreck survivors, we made it to the cafe in question. A hot drink and shelter would sort us out pronto, I reassured Mrs P.
Or at least it would have. If, of course, the cafe had been open.
“When did you say you had been here before?,” she said, peering through the windows of a building which had obviously been closed for a fair while.
I didn’t like to say it had been about 15 years ago but I think she worked out the timeframe from my bumbling, fudging reply.
Eventually the rain stopped, typically as we arrived back at home base, otherwise known as our caravan, where I placed my carefully protected dry, new shoes in a big plastic container near the front door.
I hadn’t had a chance to put the lid on it before Mrs P, armed with a broom, began pushing up the caravan awning above our heads where the rain had caused a bit of a sag in the fabric.
No surprises for guessing where the water went as she pushed.
I can now report a big plastic container placed near the front door of a caravan, just below the edge of an awning sagging under the weight of a lot of rain, can hold an awful lot of water.
And one rugged and manly, but now extremely soggy, new pair of shoes.