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I am not sure why I always expect the summer to be non-stop sunshine. It rarely is, and then I moan about having to water the garden. However so far this summer that has not been a necessity. Once again it is raining. Wordsworth insists on going out. I’m not sure where he goes to, but he doesn’t seem unduly wet on his return, so I’m presuming he sits under a bush somewhere until he decides it is time to return. It doesn’t stop him coming in with wet paws which, if I don’t head him off in time, he trails across the tablecloth. And meanwhile Holmes walks through the cottage leaving footprints from where he has been out to his bees, unless I manage to catch him in time to tell him to remove his shoes.