The weather in Bath remains bewildering — as of this writing, I haven’t seen a drop of rain since June — and I’m starting to wonder if the concept of a cool, rainy United Kingdom is a myth that I made up, a fantasy created to put in the “pro” column when I made the decision to leave sticky, sweltering Houston. And while it’s true that the hottest days here don’t even begin to compare to an average August day in Houston (Houston humidity is diabolical), it’s also true that a sunny 90F day in the UK can make the indoors feel like a convection oven. These centuries-old stone buildings are designed to keep the heat in, after all.
(I miss air conditioning. I also feel guilty for missing air conditioning: surely ubiquitous climate control is partially responsible for this climate crisis we humans have gotten ourselves into.)
So this past week, when we entered our … 5th? 6th? … heatwave of outdoor temperatures soaring north of 95F, I was tetchy, to say the very least. Marcus was in Houston, tending to the international shipment of the few belongings we have left after clearing out our house for sale (and basking in frigid air-conditioned glory, no doubt), while our daughter Alex, our dog Soca and I remained locked up, the wooden shutters to the large windows that let the only natural light into our little one-bedroom flat closed tight, lest any entering heat make matters more uncomfortable.
(More uncomfortable for me anyway. Alex’s misery was already sky high, mostly because hiding in the darkness inspired my inimitable Gollum-from-Lord-of-The-Rings impression. I’m pretty sure if she hears me call her “MY PRECIOUSSSSSSS!” one more time, she’s going to bean me with an oscillating fan.)
But last week was also eclipse week, and while Bath wasn’t in the path of totality, it was slated for 93% obscuration. I convinced Alex to join me for some fresh air (“We WANTSSSSS it! We NEEEDSSSS it!”), so on what was one of the hottest days of the week, we headed down to the park near our flat around 6:45 pm.
The park, normally lush and green and smelling of verdant vegetation is … well, dead. All the grass has turned brown and become the consistency of hay. The soil on the ground, normally soft underfoot, has become hard and compacted. The fields are so desolate, I wondered if the rain — if even it comes — will be able to bring life back.
But there was something a bit different this day.
Every time I’ve come down to this park — which, by the way, I do, multiple times a day — I invariably pass a person or two. But this day, there were dozens of folks, all in groups of 2 or 3 (or more!), waiting to witness the partial eclipse. People had cameras on tripods, makeshift pinhole contraptions created from altered cereal boxes, and even metal colanders, all trying to capture a glimpse of the celestial event. They were sharing snacks. Bottles of wine and beer. And as they waited, they connected:
“Is it hot enough for you?”
“I’m worried about my lettuces, but my lavender is coming in beautifully!”
“At least it’s clear skies for it — I hear we won’t be able to witness this again for another 55 years!”
The entire field was filled with congeniality as the air temperature dropped, and the moon moved in front of the sun. By 7:13 p.m. the sky had become golden, and eyes covered with eclipse glasses turned toward the sky.
It was lovely.
Then it was over.
Alex, Soca and I headed back up our hill. The air felt fresher. The mood was lighter. Being on out that dry, dusty field in that golden light had given me a flash of hope.
It was a reminder that our world — our universe — is indeed precious.
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