On Whit Sunday, a river of rain fell on Kingsbridge Cathedral

On Whit Sunday, a river of rain fell on Kingsbridge Cathedral. Great globules of water bounced off the slate roof; streams flooded the gutters, fountains gushed from the mouths of gargoyles; sheets of water unfolded down the buttresses, and torrents ran over the arches and down the columns, soaking the statues of the saints. The sky, the great church and the town round about all the shades of wet grey paint.
On the broad green to the west of the church hundreds of traders had set out theirs stalls – then hastily covered them with sheets of oiled sacking or felted cloth to keep the rain off. Wool traders were the key figures in the fair, from the small operators who collected the produce of a few scattered villagers, to the big dealers such as Edmund who had a warehouse full of wool sacks to sell. Around clustered subsidiary stalls selling about everything money could buy, sweet wine from Rhineland, silver brocade threaded with gold from Lucca, glass bowls from Venice, ginger and pepper from places in the East that few people could even name. And finally there were the workday trades people, who supplied visitors and stallholders with their commonplace needs. Bakers, brewers, confectioners, fortune tellers and prostitutes.
The stall holders responded bravely to the rain, joking with one another, trying to create the carnival atmosphere, but the weather would be bad for their profits. Some people had to do business, rain or shine: Italian and Flemish buyers needed soft English wool for thousands of busy looms in Florence and Bruges. But more casual costumers would stay at home: a knight’s wife would decided she could manage without nutmeg and cinnamon, a prosperous peasant would make his old coat last another winter, a lawyer would judge that his mistress did not really need a gold bangle.
From the book ‘World without end’ by Ken Follet