Rain boots, rubber boots, call them what you will. I love wellies. My favourites are bright yellow knee-highs. When the weather is grey and sodden, I don them gleefully, knowing full well that I can slosh straight through the puddles to arrive wherever I’m headed with perfectly dry feet. In fact, in early spring, when our local snowfall is still often measured in feet, but sloshy, boot-soaking feet, I’ve been known to line a pair of wellies with heavy wool socks, and put ice grips on the bottoms of them. Then, I can venture defiantly forth in the most colourful boots I possess, while thumbing my nose at the weather; and best of all, I don’t have to worry about water damage. Sheepskin lined leather boots are wonderful when it’s 28C below zero, but nothing beats wellies during the freeze-thaw cycles of spring. I can even slog through mud, and then just hose them down to make them as good as new.
There is a caution to be heeded about mud however. Many years ago, when I was still an undergrad, I used to cut across an open field to shorten my route to the university by about half a mile. Well, one especially soggy spring, that field swallowed one of my lovely white wellies, and wouldn’t give it back. I limped home (the weather still quite cool) and missed my class that day. Thank heaven that we didn’t need notes to explain our absence. Can you imagine telling a grizzled old professor of Old English that a field ate your wellie; it wouldn’t have impressed him one iota.
The next day I bought a new pair of wellies. They were navy blue because there wasn’t a large selection left. However, from then until I could wear shoes that year, I avoided that field. I wasn’t completely stupid.
These days that field is a housing development with tree-lined streets. When I drive through it from the other side of town, I often wonder if the men who built the houses ever found my white wellie, or if it’s still buried beneath the street somewhere.
There is a caution to be heeded about mud however. Many years ago, when I was still an undergrad, I used to cut across an open field to shorten my route to the university by about half a mile. Well, one especially soggy spring, that field swallowed one of my lovely white wellies, and wouldn’t give it back. I limped home (the weather still quite cool) and missed my class that day. Thank heaven that we didn’t need notes to explain our absence. Can you imagine telling a grizzled old professor of Old English that a field ate your wellie; it wouldn’t have impressed him one iota.
The next day I bought a new pair of wellies. They were navy blue because there wasn’t a large selection left. However, from then until I could wear shoes that year, I avoided that field. I wasn’t completely stupid.
These days that field is a housing development with tree-lined streets. When I drive through it from the other side of town, I often wonder if the men who built the houses ever found my white wellie, or if it’s still buried beneath the street somewhere.