What shall I write about? I wondered just now. I can hardly think for the sound of the howling wind outside… Ah, that’s it! The wind! You might not think a lot can be said about a blowy day, but around here there are a lot of them especially this time of year as autumn gales come screaming through the Dale.
We are perched at the edge of the North Sea, and it can get pretty wild. A short walk takes me to this view, which is stunning on a stormy day, not to mention a bit of a workout if we’re having 40 mph winds with 60 mph gusts. See that railing, atop the harbor wall? It’s about shoulder-height to me, and while I’m only 5’3” that is still one impressive wave!
When it really gets going, there’s the constant roar of the sea to accompany the growl and drone of the wind. It unsettles me; I find it hard to sleep during gales. My husband grew up farther north of here where it is flatter and even windier so for him it’s practically a lullaby.
Many a night has seen me clutching the blankets, wide-eyed in the dark, attuned to every unidentified bang and thump and shrieking gust through whining, snapping power lines while Sem – that cur! – sleeps deeply like a child safely snuggled up to his mother. He, unaware, is the recipient of many rueful looks as he snoozes peacefully while I shiver and jump at the noise of a thousand murderous, shrieking banshees running rampant in the night, beating at our doors and windows.
The stormy waters of the Moray Firth have had their fun with Sem in the past, though. This next photo was taken by him, and yep, that great big dirty wave gave him a hearty slap and a thorough soaking in the instant after he snapped the photo. Serves him right for sleeping so soundly while I fret!
It’s not surprising that the rest of these Highlanders hardly seem to notice the gales, either. Children walk to school whether it’s windy or not – no mollycoddling! Tough old ladies tie scarves firmly over their heads and push on against the wind, one hand gripping a walking stick, the other clutching a flapping shopping bag, sensible handbags firmly clamped against them.
It was on one such blustery day that I happened upon wee Ginny struggling along the street, making her way home. The air was snapping with icy wind, and I saw her step quicken when she spotted me. She was at least 80 at the time, tiny and fragile but known around the village as a sharp-tongued woman, hard as flint and not all that well-liked.
I have a soft spot for her, though. She has only ever been nice to me, so while I know that she can “start trouble in an empty house” as they say here, I am always glad to see her. She used to be a bus conductress back in the day, and more than one person can still remember her iron rule, tolerating no nonsense on the buses! Still, many people avoid her because she can be harsh.
But that day I shouted a cheery greeting above the howl of the wind as we approached each other. She stopped squarely in front of me, all business.
“Would you do up my scarf,” she asked. It had come loose and was in danger of being torn from her neck, never to be seen again, but as her hands were full she couldn’t do anything about it. I smiled and said of course, and took both ends, re-wrapping the scarf warmly around her neck before putting in a final knot. As I pulled the knot tighter she regarded me with knowing blue eyes which glinted with steely humor behind spectacles blown slightly askew. “Not TOO tightly, now,” she warned, her own reputation well-known to her.
I laughed and assured her I never would, and we went our separate ways, buffeted by the wind and speckled damp by the swirling drizzle.
When I told a few people of my encounter with her that day, every single one had a similar comment, made with a slightly wicked grin. “I wouldn’t have minded having MY hands around wee Ginny’s neck!”
I have no doubt that this would make her eyes flash with satisfaction. She is a force to be reckoned with, and with that reputation comes an enemy or two, but even in her high age I suspect she might still be a match for just about anyone!
Deb Segelitz was born and raised in Pennsylvania, and is astounded to find herself living in the Scottish Highlands. Equally surprising to her is that she now has a small business restoring and selling old fountain pens. These two facts have convinced Deb that life is either beautifully random, or filled with destiny created by someone with a sense of humor. She hopes the fine north state residents will accept her as an honorary member, since she has some cousins in California who she visited once, but even more importantly because the north state folks she actually knows are fabulous people, who are also the reason for her presence here on anewscafe.com. An enthusiastic amateur photographer, Deb is grateful that she lives in a place that’s about as point-and-shoot as it gets. Her tortoiseshell cat, Smartie, rates her as an average minion, too slow with the door-opening but not too bad on the food-dish-refilling, and her husband hasn’t had her deported back to the States yet, so things must be going all right there, as well.
