When the sun shines, waves like tapestries are unrolling into blinding foam gardens. Froth flakes whirl up from saturated gatherings, flights of marine butterflies, dancing.
But when clouds are chasing, tumbling after each other, discharging rain, even sleet, and alternate hammerings of hail, out there at Crab Island in shrouds of spray, the surf is roaring, ceaselessly breaking into fountains, growling like wild evil, in more than a menace.
The rock blocks and their debris, still strewn across the harbour lane, bear witness to the quiet despair in which the County awaits further natural atrocities. Gone is the spirit that prompted the havoc of January to be removed in a day and the bared pavement to be restored so as to accommodate the rush of storm tourism that followed.
And so did I. In January the meadow, that sweet soft spot in a hard place, was totally destroyed. Already in November I had cleared it of most of my belongings and in December an orange alert made me flatten my tent and weigh it down with my vandalised kitchen door, a raft of combed timber and a fish tray filled with stones. Still, as it turned out, it doesn't take that much garbage to make a place look like a mess.
In the nine years I lived there only twice the sea had wrecked my kitchen roof. Only once the sea had thrown up stones, but none that one hand couldn't remove.
A thorough clean-up was my first priority, immediately followed by clearing Funny Lane, so I could access the meadow with my van and turn it as well. For that I managed to roll or lever the worst obstructions aside, but there still remained over a dozen of unyielding monsters. I hand-picked large areas of debris clean and PJ, with his tractor shoved the biggies aside. Thus I liberated about 70%, enough to make it habitable again.
My kitchen was wiped away in its entirety. There is no stone left to identify its original location. I wanted to make a photograph, but how can you take a picture of something that isn't there anymore?
My tent was squeezed into a stone wall dog-leg like a dirty hanky. It took all my anatomical expertise to salvage some essentials as it had been fumbled almost beyond recognition.
And at that time I didn't really mind. I was in awe of the force of Nature and the challenges it put to me. I felt like David battling Goliath with every stone I threw off, with the wind through my hair and the sun in my face, salt on my lips and the ocean in my ears. I felt alive again from being were nothing is moving except the walls closing in.
But now St. Bridget has done it again. It's not so much as that most of my work has been done in vain. It's more that doing it again seems such a void attempt in the light of several more storms to come. And there is more than lethargy inspired despair. Part of me still finds it hard to believe. Somehow it feels like having happened in a parallel universe. As if any moment memory will tap me on the shoulder and warp everything back into a nine year reality. Better join the cruel awakening. Nature has struck back and she knows no mercy either.