Seahouses (Mrs Laidlaw): Week 8 – 23 October

For a time there, I thought we might get away with it. Storm Babet had barrelled in on Wednesday night, winds up around the 50-70 mph mark, shaking the windows and rattling the walls like someone taking Bob Dylan way too literally, and three days later it was still at it, but by that point there had been surprisingly little rain. Then Saturday afternoon the rain arrived, and boy did it make up for lost time. As I discovered to my cost, standing outside got you soaked to the skin in a matter of seconds. For a brief moment I thought of copying Gene Kelly and start singin’ and dancin’ in the rain, but Gene didn’t have to contend with winds like the exhaust of a jumbo jet; besides, there weren’t any policemen around to see me, so what would be the point?

The day before the storm

Of course, it’s always windy in Caithness, if not usually this windy. That’s the main reason we don’t get midges: the little beggars can never get a foothold because as soon as they poke their tiny noses out the front door, whoosh, next thing they know they’re in Scandinavia. (I never quite recovered from reading that midges make their bites with minuscule teeth. I’d always assumed they operated like mosquitos using the jab-and-suck principle, but no: having lacerated the skin, they then roll up their mouthparts into a tube and use that to suck up your blood. Hmm. By coincidence I’ve got a blood test coming tomorrow at the doctors’, and all I can say is, if the nurse makes a sudden dart at my arm with her teeth, I’ll be ready.)

Wick Outer Harbour on a calm day

In parish notices, Penelope has sent in a picture of another cracking gansey. This one is based around patterns from Filey, double moss stitch diamonds flanked with Betty Martin and cables. It’s a classic combination of patterns, and more proof in any were needed that Yorkshire patterns rock. It’s knit in Frangipani Greystone, possibly my favourite Frangipani shade, which really shows the pattern off nicely. Many congratulations to Penelope, and many thanks to her for sharing.

Masts reflecting in the harbour

And now it’s Sunday, the storm has finally passed, and we look out on a drowned world, shining in the weak autumn sun. The fields, those of them that aren’t actually underwater, are waterlogged. Everywhere looks bedraggled. The roads are littered with broken branches, twigs, and leaves, and a new peril has arisen: the flooded roads hide the potholes like camouflage to trap the unwary. Still, water tends to stream off the promontory of Caithness like breakers off the prow of a ship, so I expect it will subside soon. Though I wonder if this what Noah must have felt when he finally made it back to land—relief that it’s over, coupled with dismay at all the tidying up to be done…