As we drove across the ford, the creek lapped at its edges. It was higher than we’d seen it for years.

We travelled to Kyneton to shop, dodging new potholes, hitting some, the windscreen wipers set at full speed. It occurred that perhaps we shouldn’t be out for too long, with the creek like it was.

It was cold in town. A gale blew rain under awnings, drenching shoppers.

Near the Salvation Army shop, the wind picked up a large plastic snail, hauling it along the pavement some way before it was caught and dragged back by its horns. Adding to her workload, the hapless shopkeeper stepped in a deposit left at the door by a frightened dog.

Inside, people said how glad they were of the rain, then spoke of mud and inconvenience and how you can’t have one without the others.

I was on a mission to find lighter clothes for a Sydney trip, having outgrown the old ones. Offerings were too small, too big or too dressed up. Two of the three shops I had in mind were closed. Our sole purchase? A book for a fire engine mad grandson.

On the drive home the cattle just stood, their grazing halted by rain. Lush pastures they were yet to taste grew high.

We slid along the muddy road to the creek. It flowed fast across the ford and leapt through snags on the other side.

With the water low on the indicator – standing a little higher than the stream itself – we swam the car through. This morning it’s probably too high to risk.

Luckily our Grand Final afternoon is in the other direction. And the Cats will relish the rain.