This spring it rained every single Saturday. I walked every single Saturday. Somewhere around week eight, the complaining stopped and something quieter started.
What the rain washes off
Crowds, mostly. Also the idea that a hill owes you a view. A wet hill offers other payments: the smell of bog myrtle, cloud moving through a corrie like slow water, the smugness of a dry sandwich eaten under an overhang.
There is no such thing as bad weather — only the wrong story about what a good day looks like.