‘March, month of “many weathers”,’ grumbled John Clare, the peas- ant poet, and I thought of him as I sheltered from a shower beneath a church’s lychgate. Lych is derived from the Old English word lich, meaning corpse, and the lychgate was where a group bringing a body for burial would meet the priest. These were the mad March days of rain then sun then wind then rain then breakfast. I spent all of yester- day’s sunshine indoors, filling in tedious tax stuff for my accountant and looking forward to today’s outing. It was foolish to have expected that the weather today would still be mild. 

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