Open Writing

It’s a restless, unsettled night as an increasing wind stretches the roller shutters on the windows and any moment you expect an explosion telling you a tree has come down or somebody has lost their roof. By seven thirty when there should be light sneaking through the shutters to coax you out of bed, there’s only darkness.

Swirling clouds race over the rooftops as rain squalls sweep across the road soaking anyone foolhardy enough to venture out. There’s a few brave souls battling against the storm but for several it’s a lost cause and they shelter under trees hoping things will improve. I suspect they’ll have a long wait.

By midday it’s as dark and violent as when I climbed out of bed. There are dark threats wrapped up in a wind that’s finding its voice, heavy rain and the increasing rumble of distant thunder. A more sensible person would stay inside, read a book, listen to the fire or dream dreams.

But I’m already restless and unsettled by the storm and need to get out before the day drags me down even further. Five minutes later I’m wrapped up in a parka and fighting my way towards the dunes, being blown backwards every now and then as I try to make some sort of headway.

Half way up the hill there’s a shelter shed, deserted like the beach that stretches south to Dunkirk and north to Oostende. Sitting on the bench inside I hear the roof creaking and complaining and watch the uprights stretch with each gust. Two swallows have taken refuge in the roof timbers but are too busy grooming each other to be concerned.

This is becoming serious weather and only last week the local council announced extensive beach restoration work as protection against a possible one in one thousand year killer storm. I haven’t been through one of those but I guess it could really upset your day, not to mention your mood.

Over to the right there’s sand whipping off the dunes with the long pale green dune grass thrashing about wildly. It’s as though the grass is waving an invitation, almost daring me to continue.

Out to sea towards England, the ferry from Oostende is really doing it tough. In between the rain and clouds I watch as the bow of the ferry dives into the waves, then slowly, almost reluctantly, it reappears before finally vanishing in the rain.

Up the track between the dunes it’s just one foot after the other as the sand stings my face and crosswinds keep knocking me about. Just before the top there’s an old brick dugout from the war and I collapse behind it out of the wind.

At the base of a large stretch of dune grass on the other side of the track there are several seagulls, with no place to go and no chance of getting airborne. I tell them I’m no threat and talk to them for a few minutes. Their feathers are being blown about and I notice a Mum sitting on a small chick. What a day to start life.

I have underestimated the wind and it’s still a twenty metre crawl to the top. When it’s angry, out of sorts, or even slightly miffed, the English Channel is a beautiful place. The waves are huge and at times it’s impossible to see where they stop and the clouds begin.

The screaming never stops and I can understand claims that such wind can drive people to madness. But finally I’m there and burrow under a large clump of dune grass and close my eyes. For a quarter hour there’s no past, no future, just the now.

But as always, the now is all too short and down towards Dunkirk there’s lightning everywhere as the thunder rumbles closer. I leave it as long as I can, watching the flashes, hoping I can make it back. The lightning scares me but it’s been another magic moment and any depression I had has vanished. I’ve changed my mind. I get the feeling a one in one thousand year storm, killer or otherwise, would probably do me the power of good.