And the Wind Lingers

The worst of the gale has passed--the hail, the little plumps of rain, the long grey clouds hovering just above ground level--were not much more than inconveniences this time. But the wind lingers. Not the fierce unrelenting throbbing of the full gale, but now a persistent, stronger than normal, gusting with cold behind it wind that tells me that winter is staking its claim.

I have tried more or less successfully to ignore the closing in of the light. The long days of summer softly gave way to twilights and later dawnings. We can and do have wind in every season up here. A friend once commented that the best description of Caithness is the place where the winds begin. I think from time to time of Odysseus traveling to the cave of winds. I think that was to appease Poseidon, but no one is likely to write a saga about walking to the car or collecting the mail in this cave of winds. On some days it feels like a heroic effort.

The winter wind is the most formidable of all the season's winds because it carries a deadly chill. The wind blowing off the north sea is always cold, but the winter wind has a distinct bite. It manages to cut through the most dedicated layering of clothes. Even with a hat scrunched down about my eyes and a scarf pulled up to my nose, the wind can bring tears to my eyes.

Now after three bouts of shingles, I fear the wind even more. The cold winds can trigger the post herpetic neuralgia--the self-induced antics of the trigeminal nerve on the side of my face. For as fond as I am of my new home, I have spent the worst of each of the winters away from here and as the wind blusters around the house for the fourth day in a row, it is beginning to seem like a good idea.