Blown Away (Nearly)

There was a point, maybe ten minutes or so before the storm moved on, when I genuinely thought the roof might lift up and move on with it. Our bedroom is an attic conversion (I have always loved an attic bedroom - after Wednesday’s shenanigans, not so much), the lovely Ali had already moved down to the living room settee, leaving me up top, and this is something I have never experienced in a house before: like when you’re on a plane and your ears go funny. That. The pressure dropped as Storm Kristin grabbed hold of our roof, didn’t take it with her, just rearranged it a little. I hurried downstairs, slept fitfully on the settee.

Awoke to devastation. Fallen trees everywhere. A massive oak at the end of our road, flicked over like a Subbuteo player with a base of mud and roots. It took the top half of a cable-bearing pole with it, snapped the power cable like it was garden string. We checked with our neighbours, who all seemed okay, a bit dazed, but okay. No power, no internet anywhere. It was the same in Santiago da Guarda, our nearest town, and further afield - Ansião, Pombal. Trees down everywhere, cables strewn, rooftiles shattered, bewildered humans standing out in their gardens like they’d forgotten something.

Last year, when the Iberian peninsula lost power for a day last year, my brother advised me to get a generator. At the time, I thought: ‘Well, that sort of thing will never happen again.’ How wrong I was. So we did as Jeff had advised, and now our fridge works again and we have light and TV at night - and we bought a portable gas fire, so we’re not cold anymore. The situation improves incrementally, day by day. We have friends who have helped us with our leaky roof. We are fortunate indeed

Anyway, I wrote a poem about Kristin.

And here are some photos. Because of Kristin, we won’t be having a Writers Club in Alvaiázere this month. But keep your eyes peeled - there’ll be another one soon enough.