Storm

A day ago , by Richard Lutz

From Richard Lutz

The wind howls in from the north down the Kyles of Bute, over the Clyde estuary and rams into the sculpted beaches of the Ayrshire coast. It leaves its autograph on the sands:

The patterns change within metres, transforming from zigzag to what seems like twisted twine or tyre tracks:

The natural tapestry is never the same. The so called Hunger Wind from the north (named by fishermen because it stops the daily catch), changes direction, speed and intensity through the winter days of the Atlantic storms. Sometimes the sculpted sands resemble footprints:

Sometimes, they’re fish scales:

Another blast and these patterns will disappear. Gone with the wind, so to speak.

Above the battered beach, the Scots pines behind the dunes reach for a sudden clearing sky. Trees stretch for the light.

It’s noisy too. A real racket. There is no other sound like the fury of a stormy sea as branches whistle overhead like loose halyards off a mast. The wind releases vigorous fragrances too- sharp ocean salt tangled with pungent pine.

On other end of the beach, the roaring storm can pound a little port.

This picture was snapped at an earlier date but severe weather always causes waves to break in an uncontrollable temper. Inside the protective seawall, it’s tranquil. Outside, the wind cries havoc and bloody murder. The phrase ‘safe harbour’ couldn’t be better portrayed.

Photos: Janepix, Geograph