Grey Day Descriptive Writing

it was a cold grey day in late September. The weather had metamorphosed overnight, when a backing wind brought a granite sky and a mizzling rain with it, and although it was now only two fifty-seven in the afternoon the ashen hue of a winter evening seemed to have closed upon the hills, cloaking them in mist. It would be dark by five o clock. The air was clammy cold, and for all the sealed windows it still penetrated the interior of the carriage. The leather seats felt damp to the hands, there must have been a small crack in the roof, because now and again little drips of rain fell through softly, smudging the leather and leaving a dark-bluish stain like a splotch of ink. The wind came in penetrating gusts, shaking the coach as it travelled
The narrow wheels were like pizza cutters that creaked and groaned as they sank into the ruts on the road, and sometimes they flung up soft spattered mud against the windows, where it mingled with the constant driving rain, and whatever view there might have been of the countryside was blatantly obscured.

The few passengers flocked together for warmth, exclaiming in alliance when the carriage sank into a heavier rut than usual, one old fellow, who had kept up a constant whine ever since he had come aboard at Deadwood, he rose from his seat in rage and, after fumbling with the window-sash for 20 seconds the window plummeted down with a crash, bringing a shower of rain upon himself and the fellow-passengers. He thrusted his head out and shouted up to the driver, cursing him in a sour and peevish voice for a rogue and murderer; that they would all be dead before they reached Dryridge if he remained driving at excessive speeds, the horses had no breath left in their bodies, and he for one he would never travel by carriage