Felix and Emma don’t care about the weather at walkies time. That’s how John and I ended up on the Matsqui dike during a rain drenched chilly afternoon.

I parked and the end of Beharrell road on the riverside of the dyke, not our normal spot, but the gates close at the far end at 6 p.m. and I didn’t want to be stranded with two dogs and a mad Irishman with no car, hence the precautions.

We decided to go west on the dyke, a route we rarely take and set our sites on getting to the outhouse. That’s right the convenient outhouse, placed at the correct distance on the trail to accommodate filling bladders.

The rain came at us side ways which meant slanting the umbrellas parallel to the ground. The bitter wind found every little place to sneak in.

The dogs of course didn’t care even though we were alone up on the dyke, in our bubble of solitude. They didn’t care that it was dark all ready. We could see the odd light shine out into the gloom from the occasional farmhouse.

I’ve always wrestled to describe the feeling that comes over me at such times. The light invites, offers warmth and refuge from the storm. Yet, a strange duality exists, a sort of exaltation in being the only ones out there in the dark braving the weather, enjoying a delicious isolation. Just beyond the hedgerow, down the twisting lane, to the huddled home, comfort waits even while we thrill in the discomfort and imagined adventure of battling the elements.

Joy and sorrow share a similar relationship. Do we need the opposites to compare and contrast? Can we crave comfort and warmth if we have never known discomfort and cold?

In my mind, or soul, or what ever you choose to call that, I have a picture, of a small wooden house, in disrepair. It’s early evening, the rain has stopped. The air is that fresh after rainfall, clean. I can hear the drip, drip drip of water dropping from a rainspout into a large wooden barrel at the side of the house. I can also smell a combination of old engine oil and dankness. I have a sense of timelessness. And from the two rectangular roadside windows, light streams out onto the front yard. A dark wooden fence that may once have been white surrounds the front yard. A gate stands open, sagging on its hinges. A concrete path leads up to the door. Moss and weeds grow from the cracks. I’m coming home, yet I am afraid to go to the door.

I have tried to exorcise that image without much success. I have made up stories about it. I think I have forgotten it until a night like this and the memory ,if that’s what it is, another lifetime perhaps, comes flooding back. Emotions of safety, comfort, adventure, and foreboding float in on the tide of feelings.

Do we all have images like this?

I turn to ask John but his mind is on matters that are more mundane.

He’s smacking his lips together as he imaginarily samples a meal.

“I’m thinking soup,” he says, “something hearty. Maybe split pea.”

“Yellow split pea,” I ask hopefully.

“No green.”

“Oh.”

He can hear my disappointment.

“NO, no, something from a can.”

“I’ll have to stop at a grocery store on the way back.”

“That’s okay, I’ll stay in the car with the dogs and make sure they don’t eat it before you get back.”

“It’ll have to be that Campbell’s stuff.”

“Fine, I don’t want you to go out of your way.”

No of course not.

The car materializes out of the gloom. We are more than ready to retire from out adventure, the dogs included.

Later I arrive back at the car after visiting the grocery store with a bag full of stuff to make green split pea soup from scratch. There are no pre-made cans of the stuff in the store. I don’t really mind. I prefer my own cooking to some mystery brew full of who knows what.

John eyes the bag but wisely holds his tongue. He’s getting even better than he imagined. It’s a quiet ride home.

Here’s the recipe for the soup I made.

The Dark and Stormy Night Green Split Pea Soup

What You Need

1 lbs of split green peas
2 litres Beef or Chicken stock homemade or good quality store bought.
I medium onion diced
2 gloves of garlic crushed
1 stalk of celery finely chopped
A ham bone, pork hock, or I used chorizo sausage
2 litres of water
Olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste