Storm Diaries Day Two

August 10th

The rain drummed on the roof. It scratched at the windows and chiselled at the doors. No wind yet, I thought, as I woke. Dull clouds were clinging to the island. Heavy with rain and squashing all energy from the air. Nothing moved except the drops of rain and their echoes in the puddles that had formed in the courtyard of the farm. The sight of it all made me feel lethargic. Sunday morning flatness.

But although these clouds were dramatic in their intense delivery, they were not ex-Hurricane Bertha.

After a coffee I joined the other huddled under the wooden roof. Nobody spoke. No one dared break the stillness of the morning. We watched a troupe of starlings pick their way over the lawn. It had the feeling of being a depressing grey day. Perhaps it is a natural reaction to such stifling weather to resign yourself to laziness.

As we slowly started to clean inside the hostel, the wind made its entrance. Swerving in from the north it whipped up the puddles and ruffled the bracken. It kept increasing in its speed and persistence, slowly tearing apart the mornings grey blanket, leaving scraps of white cloud in an ever more blue sky.

Bertha must have moved to the south, I thought. As it passed in the night it has sucked down cooler air from the north into its wake, creating gale force winds over the island. Although we've been spared the brunt of the storm, the effects on the island (or at least its population) could be worse. We now face a week of strong north west and north winds. These winds push choppy seas into the boat landing, making a voyage dangerous. It appears we may be here on our own for some time.

As the sun emerged, so we did. A quick walk round the island with the volunteers revealed the effects of the rains. Paths have been scoured deeply, their contents lost to the sea. The plants seem trampled as if by some giant. As we staggered into the winds we'd often spot a Manx Shearwater chick out in the open, wind parting its soft grey down to reveal nearly formed flight feathers. As the rains fed the rising water table, these birds have escaped their sodden burrows. Their misery was compiled, however, by the murderous attentions of black-back gulls and ravens waiting for them to emerge. Evidence of a bloody night was strewn about the island. The guilty parties looked on from their perches, unremorseful.