As I sit to write this, my fingers are tingling as they regain their feeling, my nose is numb and my cheeks are burning with the cold. Needless to say, I’m sitting with a mug of hot tea steaming upward into my face, my arms protectively encircling it as I type.
I was just hounded on my very chilly walk with the dogs. I was stumbling and hiding and looking for any way to protect myself from this aggressor that I couldn’t see. The wind.
Yes, the wind. And please don’t think I’m being fanciful. Here in the very North and very West of Scotland gales are the norm. Autumn gales, winter gales, spring gales, it seems never-ending. Ha! You may think that summer is the glorious time away from this battering from the heavens – but no. We do get a respite in early and mid-summer where the term ‘fresh breeze’ is bantered about as if it’s not in itself a chilly phenomenon, but the gales are back in late summer most years.
So, as I sit with my second cup of tea warming my face and arms, let me tell you about this morning’s walk.
Battering the house from the early hours of the morning, the wind was in fine form. I was awake at 5:30 having my breakfast, well aware that I had been hearing the house taking a beating during my sleep. But come what may, at the appointed hour the animals must be dealt with. So I readied myself to walk the dogs on the croft and then the moor.
The wind caught at me as soon as I stepped outside at the back door. Making note of its northerly origin and the serious wind-chill that accompanied it, I dutifully turned toward the south for today’s starting direction. This southerly, starting-off point for the walk, which is really a large loop, has a steep uphill climb for the first 7-10 minutes. I couldn’t do my usual ascent after clambering over the stone wall of the croft because of the hard ice everywhere. The ice I could see was okay, but it’s the ice under the foliage of the heather and the grasses that is the more dangerous at these times. With the wind catching my shoulders as a rudder and my back as a sail, I struggled upward as fast as I could. Once I was over the crest of this hill I would get some sort of relief.
Relying heavily on my makeshift, yet very sturdy, walking staff I made it at a fast clip, pushed along by the aggressive wind. Upon passing the crest of the hill I was flooded with disappointment. I had not thought of the gully that ran from the north to the south. So the wind followed me, screaming with delight as it seemed to bowl down towards me along the sides of the gully.
So I kept scrambling forward, losing my footing every now and then as I was pushed and battered along my way. After four years of walking this moor, I know where the hiding spots are for most occasions. From the direction and force of this wind I knew I’d have two or three somewhat sheltered spots on this side of the loop, and nothing else for the rest of the journey home. And that was indeed what today’s walk with the dogs had turned into, a journey.
I found myself bracing against the wind (and the fates) on my last uphill climb before the crest that would lead towards the outcropping rock that was my destination. The wind was battering my eyes shut and even managed to unravel my warm beanie hat that was very snugly jammed on my head. I had 5 technical layers on top, 3 on my legs and 2 pairs of woolly socks inside of my wellies. It wasn’t enough to protect against the gleeful pierce of today’s nemesis. I didn’t think I had it in me to pull out my phone to grab some pictures, as my thin-insulate mittens, which for years have saved my fingers, seemed to be the delicate lacy gloves one might see at a debutante ball. But I got a couple, as you can see from this post.
As I looked up to take these pictures, the beauty of my surroundings could in no way be diminished by even the worst hounds from wind-hell. I felt lovely descriptions springing to mind and realized the truth behind the pull of artists and poets to stark and extreme landscapes such as this. I had never really understood it before, I suppose because my soul isn’t as open and communicative as that of an artist of any type, but somehow the wind had battered it open during the first 20 minutes of my walk today.
I dawdled as long as I could in front of my protective rock face, on the side of the hill simply watching the clouds race past. Chariots in the heavens, I thought to myself. I wondered if it was views like this that provided the Greeks with the backdrop for the tales of Zeus, Hera or Athena. Then it occurred to me, Aeolus was the God of wind. I’m sure he was looking down on me today.
However, as lovely as these thoughts were in my protective cocoon, the dogs had stopped running around and were just looking at me expectedly. Gathering up my strength, I ventured out to see where this journey today would take me. I did not expect my strength to get shredded to pieces within the first 5 steps as I walked into the wind. But that is exactly what happened. My body was again a sail, Aeolus trying to push me back with every step I took. I kept plodding on, gripping on to my staff as it nearly got snatched out of my grasp on a few occasions. This wind was fast, piercing, chilly and tricky. I could feel the imps riding on each wave just grabbing at anything of mine as they swept past.
I could feel each hair in my nose; my cheeks quickly went from tingling with the cold to numb. My eyes were being battered shut again and I lost feeling in my left nostril, probably because I tried to shield at least half of my body with the other half and had been walking into the wind at an angle. I had to go this way though; I had to close the loop. If I had retraced my steps I would have been faced with a battle with the wind as I attempted to walk downhill. Completing the loop by continuing on this section of gently undulating land was the better decision.
I had to stop and turn my back to the wind every 10 to 12 steps to try to breathe. When I found myself doing this I started to count the steps just to see how much progress I could tolerate before stopping. My head was screaming and pounding, much like the wind in the sky above. I’d never heard so much noise from the wide openness before. My nose felt a great burning up to my forehead, much like what you’d experience doing a somersault in a pool very quickly and improperly, allowing the chlorinated water to travel up your nose quickly. There was no way to go but forward.
Getting to the strip of land that behaved in a more genteel fashion, I was able to walk rapidly, and the prospect of home and shelter seemed near and welcoming. My thoughts rumbled around my head, repeating themselves so I wouldn’t forget – remember the words, remember the descriptions, get some tea, eat a biscuit.
I think I have done my best job yet at remembering my words and descriptions from today’s antics. Most certainly I have had three mugs of tea and a gazillion biscuits while writing this and warming up.
One really has to be a strong and tough person to weather the great Scottish outdoors in all seasons, especially winter. The place is beautiful, of that there is no doubt. Interestingly, however, I kept thinking about how like Alaska this must be. The similarity to Iceland and Greenland is of course obvious, given that it will only take a hop and a jump to get to these two countries from my spot in North West Scotland.
