Midwinter Storms in the West of England

St Ives in a storm

Another day, another storm. You can hate them, or love them. I know people who get very down as the mighty Atlantic winds queue up to hurl the wet stuff at this peninsula – and there are others, albeit a minority, who worship the way Nature flexes her muscles at this time of the year.

It would seem sensible to have a well-shod foot in both camps. The big winter storms can be restricting and even downright dangerous, but they should not be depressing. 

But why not get out into the teeth of the gale? Reasonable quality all-weather gear is cheap nowadays – there is no excuse for sulking indoors. And so what if you get a bit damp anyway?

It’s a good underlying principle to make the best of whatever comes our way and try and delight in it if we can – but it’s more than that when it comes to winter storms. 

We all complain that we are losing our classic seasons. Summers are damp-squibs, winters are warm, and spring has become a non-entity. You only have to look back over the past five years to believe this blurring of the seasonal edges is a reality.

But winter – good old rumbustious winter – doesn’t apologise for being the awkward kid on the block. It comes raging in with its jackboots on.

Autumn is when the West Country peninsula comes into its own. It’s when our hills and dales turn into a race track for winds. Try standing on the sea-cliffs above Parson Hawker’s Hut on the North Cornish coast in a big blow.

I’ve been knocked down by the wind out there on the Devon-Cornwall north coast – 13-stone of countryman lifted and thrown like a tissue. 

Last week up at Countisbury – 1000 feet above Lynmouth Bay’s salty maelstrom – I saw a flock of folk undoing their anoraks and holding the bottom tags to form a wedge-shaped wing. The fun thing to do then is lean at a seemingly impossible angle into the wind. One kid almost had his nose touching the ground - while remaining standing on two feet.

Careful though. This is a sport that’s only safe if you know for sure the gale is blowing permanently inland. One gust the other way and you’re a gonner. 

But at least you can rug up by the wood fire and feel snug as the gale continues to roar and rage. If I had to single out one word that I love most at this time of the year it is that humble four letter one. Snug. 

Sometimes opposites are best – one thing throws another into high delightful profile – and for me the best thing about an autumn gale is coming home to my cottage and rugging-up to feel utterly, unbelievably, soul-warmingly, snug.

Watchet in a westerly