Winter Storms
Beira, creator of the lochs, the glens, the slowly eroding mountains.
The bringer of snow, of hail. The wind. I was told the story of Beira by Claire McNicol, a story teller from County Antrim in Northern Ireland. She told of the Goddess of winter in battle with Bride the Goddess of spring and Angus Og, God of summer. Beira, she said, made her home on Ben Nevis and was proud of the landscapes she had made. I look up to the north face ridges from where I live and imagine her sleeping there in summer.
I don't know where she is this winter but I know she's angry.
What does the wind look like?
Is it hope as a zephyr of breeze caresses a becalmed sailboat, a small hand in the back urging the sunburnt, thirsty sailor forwards? Is it joy and wonder lifting a red kite, its wings near motionless in the sky or a wood pigeon, so fast and aerobatic? Perhaps it's a force so powerful it can scour the land, ripping up trees, unconditionally merciless. Nests, roosts, houses - destroyed.
Storm Gerrit was destructive. To some that meant trees down in local parks or roads closed until cleared. To others, restarting businesses, dealing with the aftermath, sharing stories. The storm hits early in the morning with winds far exceeding forecasts. We've sat out five years of storms but this is different. Sometime after breakfast and the flue on the wood stove is lifted apart and smoke pours into the room. “Get the fuck out”. I'm shouting at my wife and sister to get the kids out. The children stop to put shoes on at the door. “Get the FUCK OUT”. I don't have time to think about it. I only know there's a chance our home will catch fire and I want everyone out. It's not your average way to spend the festive period. We all get out. I try to sort out the stove and lash down the yurt with the wind battering me, cold rain soaking me to the bone. Everyone else moves to the house we are building. I join them in a while and apologise. The rest of the storm I cannot talk. I watch the yurt and just hope it stays. It is our home.
The Highland landscape has been carved by ice.
The glacial tills on my doorstep drain freely and even the most intense rains will disappear into the ground or deep-gouged rivers a few hours after the rain has stopped. Beira made the land strong and she made it beautiful. The trees and houses find it hard to resist her strongest winds. Her rage cracks trunks, blocks paths, rips roofs from buildings. I am fearful of the storm. I am in awe of the power. It is sublime.
I used to live in Cornwall. We couldn't even hear the wind in the thick-walled house made from granite. At that time we were storm chasers not yurt dwellers. Every day I would scan weather forecasts looking at weather charts, excited if I saw those isobars pulled tightly together, strong winds producing waves rippling out from the storm until they feel the ocean bottom and break on our shores. Waves I want to be riding. A very different perspective. Living in the yurt has exposed us to the elements, the birds, the stars. The storms are frightening.
The battle with spring goes on. Bride appears to be winning now. The snows don't come as much and the buds, pregnant with new life, come earlier each year. Beira's rejuvenating sleep gets longer until, when she emerges in late autumn with flaming red hair once more, the storms are fiercer, more intense and come one after the other.
This isn't a force we can resist.