The Winds of March

I like mild, warm breezes, those sirocco winds on the Med and Adriatic which cool you down after a blistering day.

But the ill winds. Cold, sharp. Gales hurling themselves at the windows. They get under the layers and leave a body frozen until bed time. The sound can drive a person insane, night after night. I suspect people are driven mad by storms.

I have been blown around the Pennines, somewhat cheerily, recently. Enjoying  retiring to a fire in a pub, on the cobbles. A book and a beer then onwards up the hill for supper.

Once there  all of the previous arduous life of the Highlands melted away, forgotten, like I had never lived in tundra.

Then the return – with a creaking knee from walking up and down steep valley sides – and a sore eye – braised by a northerly.

Days of gales, howls, storms and a sudden raise in blood pressure. Rest. A slightly better feel today.

The strains of moving house are beginning to tell.

‘You sound like you need a glass of wine’ said someone.

I need a birthing pool to release the stress.

This change may not yet happen. Everything, as last time, may suddenly end.

There’s a saying from the old Yu – ubila me promaja – the draught is killing me.

Close the windows, shut the doors, everyone would exclaim, even in summer.

No one likes a sneaky wind at the back of the neck. No one likes an ill wind blasting through their lives.

Still it heralds change – not always liked. But that is change. That is wind.

There will yet be a friendly sirocco come summer time.

chocolat

 

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