The heavy rain makes steady sounds outside, and it brings my attention to my surroundings. When will it stop – and why does it rain so often? Nataša says all but one of the farmers they are connected with have lost all of the yield for this year, victim either to the rain, or the hail, or the winds, or the storms which bring these three all together.

It has been raining for what feels like ten days, now. Not consecutively, uninterruptedly; but I'd swear not two full days go by without the sky grading its tone towards several shades of dark, and then the air gets heavier, and everyone knows it's due; if there are clothes drying out, tables in which we have our meals outside, it all must come inside to shelter. Sometimes the rain goes away quickly, but it has been raining, albeit not uninterruptedly, for what it feels like ten full days, now.

The fields get moist and squeaky as our feet step over it. The old stable, where the bigger kitchen is, has rendered someone's palm on a wall or on the floor, I did not yet see it but only heard about, as he or she slipped in its muddy, elusive terrain. There are not so many places where one can still make use of the day when it pours on the farm. I have been finding some solace in the village sports' park, where there are tables, space, a cover from the rain, solitude and silence. If its raining, there's no reading outside; if it's wet, going out of the village is uncomfortable. Conjuring imaginary spaces of shelter on such limited real space is hard.

Earlier today there was a midterm evaluation for all the volunteers, but one: Luka is leaving the farm; other life commitments arose, and opportunities appeared. The prospect of an early departure loomed over the group during the bigger part of the past week; and as it rains with the thunderstorms outside, I too wonder.

It hasn't always been like this. Nataša and Daniele can recall every Summer and every other season they spent at the farm, their impressions of the weather neatly separating sunny and merry years from grayish, moister periods. It seems like they can tell every year apart, conjuring strong narratives with the farm and its balance with the weather at the center; it has been raining, yes, but not like that Summer, four or five or six years ago, when it was really just too much. But no two seasons have been the same; the predictability of the weather is eroding. I know to have wanted to leave Portugal behind for the Summer due to the heatwaves, and the strong sun. And the fires. The country is very often ravaged by destruction and it feels hopeless. There were some other reasons, too, and sometimes I read the news, expecting brief impressions of how everyone is doing back home.

But as it rains more and more, and thunderstorms come and don't go all that quickly, and it violently pours quantities of water that one would only expect in the harshest days of Winter, and the Sun is nowhere to be seen just like when the days are short and looking up there are only abstract textures of grey pastels of clouds, it seems like that year, four our five or six ago, is now not so unique, and I remember the moment when those distant memories in both of them found themselves acknowledging the harshness of the present weather.

Nataša wasn't sure whether she had said this before; all but one of the farmers they are connected with have lost all of the yield for this year. From the ten hectares or so, there were three still standing. But no longer. It is a year's work, and a year's worth. Some are winemakers, and might get around with reserves from past years, and there is not a point to be made on organic farming being less resistant to the weather: all of the conventional farms around us have been ravaged by the violent irregularity of Spring and Summer. And it hasn't always been like this.

It's now ten past four in the morning, my restlessness most likely due to the late dinner, the first in which we were joined by both our hosts, and we cooked a Georgian dish; there was also cake, and some wine. Luka is leaving tomorrow; and I wonder if it rains in the morning, and I wonder if we will work; and I wonder.