It's the first subject of call when we call our relatives abroad. It's the dictum of conversations up and down the country, between colleagues over coffee, across the till at the supermarket and lamenting up and down the airways. We know it rains, almost daily, yet it still seems to surprise us.
One thing I've noted during my travels around the UK though is that - unlike in the frequently rain deprived Mediterranean - a bit of rain, or even a fair bit of rain - doesn't stop the pursuit of a day out. Train lines might get flooded and our plants might get over watered but apart from that our day is unharmed. If the plan was to go out rambling in the Lake District or cycle across the coast, then the plan remains.
Most are smart enough to pack for all weathers. You could need sun cream one minute and a cagoule the next especially in the Welsh valleys. But those that chance t-shirts and shorts couldn't care less. I've seen children cycling behind their parents soaked to the skin as the rain continues to pelt down sideways. Perhaps they think if they keep going, the sun will come out.
And more often than not, they're right. It might be fleeting, it might still be raining but the sun does eventually come out. And in the valleys when it does, the hills shimmer in shades of lime and deep spinach greens, the granite and slate that could slide off the hills at any minute turns from deep charcoal to the deepest shade of purple-grey. The mist lifts and the valleys stretch out beyond in all directions, the gentle slopes cradling the newly-sprung streams and waterfalls.
It's momentary. You can feel the chill in the wind return. Cast shadows are suddenly erased and the clouds roll steadily back in, pulling a neutralising blanket back across the hills.
The cyclists cycle on.
And still we talk about the weather.
