Tuesday, 25 September 2012
Last night the wind tore about so fiercely and so wildly it sounded as though the sea had risen to my window. Even the bed shook when the strength of the gusts ran up against the stones of this home, and the door in the hall clattered all night. A screaming and a whistling stole in through the gaps of these old windows and the curtains danced, though the panes were fastened tight against the rain that hissed upon them.
The day before, down below the cliffs, we found the body of a great grey seal, which must have died only shortly before. It was so beautiful, so almost alive that even though it was clear that it would not, it seemed all the same that it might wake up again any time. And then we walked on homewards and night fell on the derelict school on the way, with the carved granite numbers saying the year 1904, as somewhere down the street a man hollered and wailed unhinged.
And this morning, the people down in the old fishing town, the one the harbour never managed to swallow, they woke up to find sea foam covering everything. It covered pavements, cars, everything, so that it seemed at first as though it had snowed.