Pandemonium...
when the wind blows so hard you can no longer stand - run!
Dearest friends, family and curious passers by, welcome to A hill and I.
Thank you for sharing a few minutes of your precious time here with me.
The first two weeks of summer have been brutally, chaotically and exhaustingly s(m)ad! The unimaginable in a backlog of gardening chores was achieved through sheer stamina obstinate stupidity, many tears of pain then an audible sigh of relief at having conquered the impossible. All of which was immediately washed away in an unprecedented and unpredicted storm that laughed and crackled uproarously at my feel good moment leaving much of the labour accomplished undone and, just to be a complete killjoy, added a lethal ice show to ensure any sign of pride was vanquished entirely
I was far from calm.
I am far from rested.
And, further frustrated by the absence of anything remotely connected and a text from our sever stating repairs to whatever it is that has to be repaired are not scheduled until mid August. Hence, this letter is very late…
I am floating in a wilderness of unconnectedness - I can’t decide whether I feel liberated or lost?
Mid August, really???
In the quiet before the storm…
In an absolute quiet - not even a cricket chirrups from the meadow - my camera slung over a shoulder I am walking to the outcrop of rock at the top of the hill, carrying with me a sudden desire to watch the approaching storm. Whether the feeling bubbled up with the storm clouds or it was a simple need to breathe after an afternoon of stagnant, oppressive heat, I don’t know.
I see the dull gleam of his shot gun barrels before I see the farmer. They are poking through the faded grasses framing a small coppice of trees in faded gold. He is sitting quietly, gun in hand, face devoid of thought other than the prey he is hunting. He is not surprised to see the crazy Englishwoman roaming the hill during the nether hours, he is well acquainted with these surprise meetings now.
His shotgun, cocked and loaded is laid across his lap. I approach, without caution… it seems possible now, that he has forgotten he was waiting for wild boar to appear, his attention is, as mine is, fixed on a ghostly, windswept curtain of rain advancing eerily across the horizon.
Gathering momentum…
Regardless that it looks as though certain Armageddon is galloping at speed on the far hills, I bid him good evening. Rising to his feet, he greets me with an eyes heavenward smile breaking open his gun and unloading the cartridges as he does so. I know that just by setting foot on these slopes this evening I have ruined all chance of a successful hunt but looking at the ominously dark clouds racing towards us in a heavy, almost touching the ground, sky he knows, as I do, it has ended anyway.
A sudden, nevertheless expected, squall whips over the top of the hill before we even have time to exchange pleasantries. So ferociously strong dried grasses are flattened to the soil, branches of the trees he was sat beneath are blowing, first low to the ground, bending under relentless gusts, young and old bones creaking in protest. Then, just as suddenly the wind whips weakened limbs skyward; a leafy fingered plea for fast gathering clouds to turn back.
The farmer and I, buffeted also, brace ourselves against the gales full force, watch the black mass prowling the horizon growing thicker and faster, stare in awe as it gathers up the days breathless hot air to collide with cooler hidden within. Leaves and loose grasses are flying past us, a wild eddy of nature debris. In the not so far distance a broiling mass of spectacular flashes of light and thunderous noise envelopes the landscape and within seconds the entire hill is caught up in the chaos. Ancient stone, silver birch, fauna and flora, all are charged with the unmistakable metallic scent of electrostatic.
We have no time to speak, our voices would be inaudible over the roar of the wind anyway. He squints up at the sky, too black, too low, his weathered face etched with concern. I understand his thoughts, nod in silent agreement and bid him farewell feeling the first cold drops of rain as they begin to pelt bare skin.
Running with the wind.
With the wind behind me I turn and run, its wild fury pushing me forward as if urging me to hurry. I fly in through the gates to home, more from the force of the gale than through my own efforts just as the first giant hailstone hits the ground. Still running, I bound up the steps to safety and my very relieved to see me husband standing under the shelter of the terrace. The storm arrives with a vengeance, hailstones the size of small oranges pelt the roof, each impact sounding like a cannon shot in the confined space of the courtyard. It is bedlam, the noise a deafening, unrelenting barrage that shakes the very walls of our house.
I stand transfixed, watching in guilty awe as the hailstones, bouncing on every surface create their surreal and chaotic ice dance.
“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”
― Pablo Neruda
The sheer power of a storm is a mesmerising testament to nature's untamed fury. It is impossible not to marvel at the sight.
The sky is so dark now, as if night just closed its black veil, the noise of the wind is does not abate, lightning flashes in every direction, revealing whiplashed contours of trees and the relentless assault of ice balls on earth and tin and slate and terracotta.
I am transfixed amidst this wondrous force unable to turn away in spite of a gnawing fear growing within me, every thunderous crash on the roof brings a new wave of anxiety as I realise the potential damage1 being inflicted not only on our home but on all the livestock and each and every home scattered about the hill.
pandemonium (n.)
1667, Pandæmonium, in "Paradise Lost" the name of the palace built in the middle of Hell, "the high capital of Satan and all his peers," and the abode of all the demons; coined by John Milton (1608-1674) from Greek pan- "all" (see pan-) + Late Latin daemonium "evil spirit," from Greek daimonion"inferior divine power," from daimōn "lesser god" (see demon).
Here on my hill, called Le Paradis, we witnessed just two minutes of pandemonium… it was enough. Elsewhere the storm lasted fifteen long minutes, damages were countless.
Breathless, still disconnected love to all, I wish you a calm new week…
We were lucky to have just three skylights broken and a number of slates off the barn roof - thank goodness the scaffolding is still up - however, the impact elsewhere was immense. One retirement home had to be evacuated entirely in the middle of the night, main streets turned into rivers of ice, The damages were sufficient for the Mayor to declare a Catastrophe Naturel. Over the following days, the usual terracotta coloured roofs in the three closest towns turned into a tarpaulin patchwork of yellow, green and blue, few were untouched. Every car parked without cover lost its windows. I prefer not to glorify other peoples misery with images but here is a link if you are curious;
https://france3-regions.francetvinfo.fr/occitanie/aveyron/rodez/des-grelons-de-six-centimetres-causent-d-importants-degats-lors-du-passage-de-violents-orages-3003536.html
Susie, your encounters with nature are so extreme! We all are experiencing mother nature’s power and ferociousness in degrees but your special hill and surrounds seem particularly vulnerable. The way you describe her approach—tentative and then without-a doubt-ominous—makes her wrath feel all the more scary and dispiriting. I’m so glad the damage was minimal to your land and property, though upon looking at your link, it looks like others didn’t fare as well.
I find myself wanting to see a new Tarot card image called Susie of the Hill. It would be an image of a beautiful, powerful, unflinching woman standing tall on her hill with all forces of nature both gentle and fierce whipping around her. She feels it all, but never topples
You have this uncanny ability to transport us with your writing. I feel as if I'm standing there on the hill with you as the sky darkens and we can smell the rain coming. The photographs you capture, as always, are stunning.