The day before the storm was hushed and still, expectant as a theatre when the lights go down. Then Storm Darragh swept in, roaring and raging, tossing the scenery about. The government alert on my mobile nearly made me jump out of my skin – but apart from that, I spent the day oddly becalmed, safe from the huffs and puffs of the wolf trying to blow my house down.
It seemed to me that a weather event of this drama and magnitude deserved at least to be felt, so once the worst was past, I pulled on my boots, zipped up my jacket and headed out to pay my respects.
The wind knocked me back with a chest bump worthy of an American linebacker. I had to lean in just to stay upright. The trees along the railway line bent with each gust in a great Mexican wave. Wood pigeons skittered through the air and jackdaws ripped across the roiling sky in black tatters. It was a wild ride, walking out in that world, and I returned home with eyes bright, blood up.
Darragh – an Irish name meaning oak – was the fourth named storm this season. Eowyn, Floris and Gerben are next in line as we work our way down the alphabetical list compiled in 2015 by the Met Office in the UK and its sister organisations in Ireland and the Netherlands.
Two days later, the world I step into is a world changed: lighter, more fragile, pared back. Woods that had been dark walls of foliage are now shot through with skylight. Not just from fallen trees – every leaf from every twig has been meticulously picked by the wind, transforming the dense woodland to a delicately patterned jaali screen. The trees stand naked, shivering in their ivy innerwear, balls of mistletoe trapped in their branches like footballs kicked by errant kids.
Like all old gods, the wind is capricious, generous, destructive, inscrutable. In his wake, Darragh has scattered gifts: a twisted branch of cypress that my mother and I haul home for a Christmas tree, gutters heaped with pine cones we gather for decorations and, for our fireplace, more kindling than you can shake a stick at.
