Between a Squeal and a Bawl

The making of a squall

Last night I kept the windows open on Masquerade, lying in bed staring up at the trees bordering the canal as they leaned and shook, leaves flying. Rain battered the boat, spattering on the metal roof, a thousand, a hundred thousand tiny hammers. We’re only a few miles from the sea here, and the first line of the Welsh mountains looms over us. Moist air…