Hello January, hello wild weather

As I write, the gales are blowing hard. This muddy grey January day (23rd) is a relatively gentle filling sandwiched between two enormous Atlantic low-pressure systems. It is raining hard and winds are gusting to 60mph, even in this supposed period of respite. The two storms have been given names, as if somehow this will mitigate their impacts and make people sit up and listen. A man from the Met Office said it is not true for anyone to say “But we always have storms”, and yet, and yet… up here we do!

Each storm is different, with its own nature and distinctive characteristics – colours, sound, wind speed and direction, rainfall, amount of light. The storms frequenting this top left-hand corner of Britain may not be regarded by European meteorologists as name-worthy, but I can always find something suitable.

We are ‘storm blessed’ in the far north. I have written umpteen times about how one big monster after another will come chasing across the Outer Hebrides or from the Northern Isles between November and April. Wind is our almost constant companion but it is also my joy – I am a storm lover*. So here we are, ready for the next one. Jocelyn, following hard on the heels of Isha.

I will go out again in the storm winds, just for the thrill of it. I love to see foam from breaking waves gallop across the shore and up into the dunes. I love to watch storm clouds tear apart and fly over the mountains. I love the light of a big storm, and the lack of it. I love watching birds as they strive in the turbulent and sometimes violent air. Gulls flying low over the peppermint-coloured storm waves are a joy to watch. There is so much beauty and colour in the tempestuousness of winter weather.

But only recently, Wester Ross turned completely white. Snow returned to the hills on January 14^th after a hiatus of several weeks. The mountains of the Scottish Highlands often sport a winter coat although there is a tendency for snows to come and go on the hills closest to the sea. Patches of snow appear on the summits often, coming and going all winter. Here, we are at the mercy of Atlantic maritime weather systems, very different to the Cairngorms where deep winter can last for weeks. The impacts of salty winds and milder air blowing in from the Minch followed by polar air cause thawing then freezing and more thawing, over and over again. Change is typical, atmospheric volatility the norm. Last year, during a strangely severe late spring cold spell, Baosbheinn and Beinn Alligin (the mountains who form the backcloth to our lives) retained their white caps well into May.

On January 15^th we went straight from gales with rain to squalls with snow. Dense blizzards and deep snow, even here, so close to the sea. The post-Christmas period can often be white and brittle with cold, yet this middle week of January found us temporarily cut off. Although the nine-mile, single-track road from Kerrysdale bridge near Gairloch was ploughed (only once, but a first for us), and although the regular piles of grit supplied by council and crofters were repeatedly and kindly spread on the steeper sections, for a time the road was impassable (another first). So, we wandered on foot with crampons and walking poles.

Snow fell on and off all week. There were a few periods of melting and thinning but by Thursday, more than eight inches lay in the hay fields, with snow banked up along the riverbank, ditches and fences. Most unusually, the peach-red sands of Opinan and the cobbles and rocks of South Erradale’s shore were covered. The snow was deep enough to obscure the Seaweed Road, bog pools, the transitions from field to shore, shore to sea, and many of the familiar nooks and crannies, lumps and bumps that act as way markers. Waves wiped away snow piles to reveal a narrow strip of beach or pile of rocks, then snow covered them up just as quickly.

We watched high and mighty, swift-moving squalls gather to the north and rush down the Minch. From time-to-time they completely obscured the entire chain of islands from Lewis to Skye. Turning our faces eastwards, we watched the tumults of cloud flow south over the mainland where they dwarfed the mountains. Thundersnow was forecast. I heard nothing but caught an occasional brief flash of light out to sea, warning of yet another, wilder spell of incoming trouble.

One mean-spirited squall caught us as we walked on the Seaweed Road to Opinan. We sheltered, crouching, by an old shed and sipped coffee as the blizzard tried to whittle away the last shreds of warmth from our bodies. Beyond the fence, the waves rose tall and wild, charcoal-grey and foam-topped. From our semi-shelter they seemed furious in their efforts to overrun the snowy ground.

I think of these storms and squalls as entities. Even without official names, big or small, they are full of character; they grow and swell and blow in and then fade away. Each one is unique, each one thrilling in its own way, each worth a photograph if photography is possible.

By the third day, the snow had settled deeply everywhere. (How the children and grandchildren would have loved the pristine white fields and slopes.) White heaps sat on fences and gates, on trees and hedges and boulders. The riverbank shrubs were waist deep in drifts of pure white. The river itself was hardly visible yet I could hear it running fast. In contrast to the dazzling white snow, the rich, deep blue sky and dark green sea glowed. Clouds continued to build over the islands and mountains but they swept past us turning from charcoal-grey to powder blue to yellow and pink as they rushed over our heads.

            We made the most of this one day, only going in to warm up, have a hot drink, dry our gloves, and warm our toes. It felt wrong somehow, going indoors when the land shone so brightly. The weather was changing; at sunset we could sense the warmer air. Later, the forecast spoke of thaw and flood.

            By the following morning, all but a few patches in sheltered hollows in the valley and on distant summits were snow-free. The clouds curdled and poured in from the west, warmer and saltier. I wandered out anyway to see how the croft had fared. The Red River was in spate, carrying snow melt down to the sea. There were plashes of standing water everywhere. I thought of the dark pools on the surfaces of melting ice sheets in the Arctic, and the rapidly running meltwater streams carrying away the cold blues of ‘normal’.

Everything is changing. 2023 was a year of big changes in the natural patterns here** but 2024 has already shown its face.

            In spite of the waterlogging and although the vegetation is compacted and bleached by winter, the meadows still hold the promise of summer. I closed my eyes and let the cold wind twist around my body. I thought of hay meadows and dragongflies and golden blooms. There is a lot of waiting to go through before then and many, many storms, no doubt.

I walked up onto the peatland surrounding the croft. Although there were pools of black water everywhere and although I could hear running water hidden under tussocks of vegetation, the bog myrtle was glowing with colour and laden with red-russet coloured buds, each one brimful with perfume and the promise of spring.

* Windswept: Life, Nature and Deep Time in the Scottish Highlands published by William Collins.

** https://www.caughtbytheriver.net/2023/12/shadows-reflections-annie-worsley-windswept-red-river-croft/ in ‘Shadows and Reflections’, Caught by the River.