Not here in England.
I'm not sure if climate change is already affecting the gulf stream, which the UK depends on for its relatively balmy climate. Perhaps it's merely an anomaly. All I know is the thermometer is reading 12 degrees C, and the constant rain and wind storms are making it feel worse. I've given in and lit the wood stoves. On August 24th. Summer.
The cup of coffee and book are there to distract me from worrying about this year's hay crop. It's cut and on the ground and was dry, but we couldn't get it baled before this storm came in. We need a least three dry, preferably windy, days in a row to bale it or we'll lose all our winter fodder and have to buy it in. I have some of last year's still in storage but a bad winter will see that gone by Christmas.
Even the livestock look fed up. Chickens began their summer moults, and now have to take shelter under the Land Rover.
The pheasants are holed up in the woods under shelter too, possibly evolving webbed feet.
Checking the sheep takes longer too; they are the same colour as the fog. I'm nearly driving over them by the time I spot them. They get checked twice a day now minimum as their pregnancies develop. A few days ago I found N1125 on her back in a tractor rut, unable to roll over. She was stuck fast, legs in the air, like a wooly bug. (The scene reminded me of Gregor Samsa waking up after his metamorphosis.)
I turned N1125 right side up, but it took her some time to recover, and I had to help her onto her feet. Losing a sheep to pneumonia is one thing. Losing a sheep and her unborn lambs to a misplaced roll in the grass in another thing entirely.
The outside dogs are piled up together in their dry, straw beds. The indoor dogs have found the lit wood stove and laid beside it. I just picked up the mail, including this month's National Geographic with its headline: What's Up with This Weather?