Make hay while sun doth shine

In this month is St. Swithin's Day,
On which, if that it rain, they say,
Full forty days after it will,
Or more or less, some rain distil.
This Swithin was a saint, I trow,
And Winchester's bishop also,
Who in his time did many a feat,
As popish legends do repeat:
A woman having broke her eggs,
By stumbling at another's legs,
For which she made a woful cry.
St. Swithin chanced for to come by,
Who made them all as sound or more,
Than ever that they were before.
But whether this were so or no,
'Tis more than you or I do know.
Better it is to rise betime,
And to make hay while sun doth shine,
Than to believe in tales and lies,
Which idle monks and friars devise.'
Poor Robin's Almanac for 1697

Well today is St Swithin's Day. I did know about the rain and the 40 days of ensuing gloom but I didn't know about the eggs. Saintly or what! It's not looking good. Overcast followed by mizzle and now a downpour. Still TJ and I managed to have coffee al fresco this morning and a catch up; and I strove in the garden all afternoon until mizzle stopped play. This rogue leek/garlic/monster chive doesn't mind the weather at all, and is attracting quite a gang of admirers.

Is it too wet for a swim?

And what a difference to last year