Large, deep cracks had been appearing on the forest floor. Not that we needed the sight of the cracks to remind us that we were in a rain deficit, after the copious rainfalls of the earlier months this spring and summer. One could hazard a guess that like a spoiled child who gets everything it wants and becomes accustomed to being cossetted, the landscape adjusts to an excess of rain moderating the heat and dryness of summer and when it is withdrawn, it goes into a vegetative tizzy.

On Tuesday we had a full afternoon of rolling thunderstorms. There were episodic rainfalls once the thunderstorms packed up, and they continued through the night. We slept in on Wednesday morning, so that by the time we got up and prepared to leave for a before-breakfast hike in the woods it was already much later than usual.

We entered a very, very wet forest under a cloud-crowded sky which made the forest interior even darker in aspect, like an early twilight. Although well steeped in rainfall, underfoot the ground that had been gasping for rain for the past several weeks welcomed it and absorbed it readily. Even the creek which we might have expected to be swollen with rain just appeared a trifle deeper and wider than it had been the day before. The vegetation, however, was a different story altogether.

Not only was excess rain falling from above every time the breeze riffled the foliage of the overhanging trees, but leaves at eye level of shrubs and other plants were lathered in moisture even though it was no longer raining. There were droplets hanging off twigs and branches that when catching the light, shimmered like jewels.

We saw a spider's web hanging between two shrubs that had 'caught' raindrops, and there they were, nestled in the delicate tracery of the web, no longer quite as intact as it had been before heavy rain had distorted its perfect shape, but still able to act as a trap to net the droplets instead of the insects the spider had anticipated would be caught when the web was built as a spider-woven-pantry.

The rain had encouraged more of the wild Himalayan orchids to bloom. The thimbleberry bushes are still putting out flowers even though the flowers that had earlier bloomed are now being steadily transformed into juicy red berries; not many since it's still early days for the thimbleberries, but a delightful few that spoke to us of a bumper crop to be expected later in the month.

Jackie and Jillie are picking up fewer bits of detritus in their hair and paws since their grooming on Tuesday afternoon, which is a bonus for them and for us. When prickles stick in their paws they're miserable, holding up the offended paw and waiting for us to come to their rescue. The delightful little buttercups, fleabane and asters develop burrs from their flowerheads after blooming and they stick to the puppies' hair. It's nature's way of ensuring that seeds get scattered not only by wind but by being carried along in the hair of animals.

So many of our ravine acquaintances had gone out in the morning to avoid the afternoon heat of a sunny 31C, that we were waylaid time and again, talking for lengthy periods with people we've long known. On most of those occasions there were other dogs involved, providing a diversion for Jackie and Jillie. But it made us even later eventually getting home, drawing out our time in the ravine to just under two hours.

After they'd had their breakfast, Jackie and Jillie decided it was rest time. They headed upstairs to the old orange-velvet covered loveseat in our bedroom, to sleep off their activity's exercise. They'd followed me upstairs, when I planned to make up our bed. And after I'd finished with the bed, Jackie abandoned the loveseat for his favourite perch on the bed, clambering as high as stacked pillows could take him, the king of all he surveyed, before he fell asleep.