Living on the west coast in the direct line of the Gulf
Stream, we get rain, lots of it.
An old university friend of mine, who came from Cork on the southwest
coast of Ireland, loved it. He
often waxed lyrical about how he liked to walk the cliffs in fine, warm drizzle, and I never really believed him.
Now I do. After living for
four decades on the coast of Wales, rain is part of everyday life. Although I try not to venture out when
it's serious, it doesn’t really bother me at all. We get all sorts of rain, from fine drizzle to severe gales,
and it constantly changes the countryside. It’s so unpredictable too, arriving suddenly only to cease
in an instant. Life goes on in
spite of the weather; we just live around it.
On days like today, when there’s blanket of heavy rain from
dawn to dusk, I can sit in the shelter of the car at the lighthouse and watch
the rollers pass over the sandbank offshore. There’s real drama out there. Low cloud merges with sea and spray, all carried along by
the strong westerly wind. There's
no horizon. The few gulls dotted
about in the surf don’t seem to be bothered at all by the wind, now blowing at gale
force, and camouflaged oystercatchers seem to be unaware of the weather. This is not the first storm of the autumn, but heralds the arrival of
many more to follow on this wild Atlantic coast.
Along the cliff path, the stiff wind has torn away leaves
that promised a show of autumn colour. Coastal hawthorns, bent by generations
of gales, lean landward, attracting loose flocks of starlings facing windward
as they gobble up a few berries before quickly moving on. Others join linnets and meadow pipits
keeping low to the ground in the stubble of a neglected field. Away from the cliffs, trees, more
protected from the ravages of the wind, leaves hang on, but the trees are
slowly beginning to show winter geometry.
It’s getting late for autumn migrants now, and a lone swallow fighting against the wind will find it difficult to cross the channel
to Devon before nightfall.
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