I’m your man for a bit of wild weather. I know it can cause pain and damage and, obviously, I’m not condoning that. Sometimes, Mother Nature just doesn’t know when to stop.
Neither do I particularly like driving in a storm, or even just in heavy rain. But I do like to stravaig hither and yon, taking the risk of a tree branch falling on my heid or a discombobulated owl flying into my face.
One recent stormy day, I waddled into the garden and worked at some tasks as the wind shook the trees and shrieked across the sky.
Tidying up a messy area near the top of my demesne, I heaved up a large piece of concrete and three wee mice, cowering from the storm, skedaddled away. I felt sorry for them. They probably felt cosy under there, then the Big Beardie Giant comes along and wreaks havoc.
Still, I’m sure they found some other bolthole in which to snuggle up. Storms are good to snuggle against.
And stormy days are so atmospheric. This one had kept the noisy gardeners and DIY enthusiasts indoors, which is always a blessing. The noise of a storm is a different thing entirely. It’s organic. You don’t have to pour petrol into Mother Nature.
Looking back across my demesne, I could see white riders – foamy waves – on the heaving sea. The afternoon was pressing on, and I wanted a walk before darkness fell. Wrapped up right well, I plunged into the forest, which felt under siege. The trees braced their roots and stood strong against the gale.
The forest leads to the local public gardens, which were closed because of “the high winds”, though I’m slightly ashamed to admit to decent, law-abiding ratepayers like you that I climbed over the fence to sit on my favourite seat nearby, the one that overlooks the sea and mountains.
I’d been in the forest, and it was just the same trees here in the gardens, so I couldn’t think that it made any difference. If a tree fell on my heid, then on my heid be it. I’d been warned.
The gardens tend to close at the drop of a hat or branch, anyway, probably for legal reasons. But I wouldn’t sue anyone if a tree fell on my heid, though a contribution to pay for my Aspirin fees might be appreciated.
On the seat by the sea, my stormy mind flitted through the usual concerns, wreaking havoc upon them until they fell away, and I just felt content where I was. Often, at this point, I get a voice in my heid saying: “I like this. I’m happy here.”
It’s a kind of unwilled thought that seems to come from somewhere deep in my soul, somewhere within me but also far away. You say: “You’re gettin’ oot yir depth noo, Rab, and talking mince.”
That is a good point, well made. And, talking of mince, my enlightened, spiritual thoughts turn to my tea. So, I take a slightly different route back home, past the house with the seven barking dogs and along the narrow path by the sheep field.
Near the fence, one hunkered doon beastie sees me and says: “Hi, Rab. I hate storms, me.” I nod sympathetically. Storms are not for everyone.