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Storm in the west of Ireland
My mental pictures of wild Connacht weather would furnish a municipal gallery, each of them hugely framed in gilt and called something like ‘Tempest in Mayo’. The story the other night would have suited Turner to a T: in the fierce headlights of a friend’s minibus, it swarmed about us in flourishes of silver, in washes of ochre and umber. Only a minibus, driven with knowledge of every twist and turn of the road in all conceivable conditions (in other words, the school bus) could have brought us home at all. The road seethed with water. It poured from every gap in the ditch, spilled from every hill stream, hummocked out of boreens. Below our own gable, The Hollow echoed to the crash and grind of boulders, the hollow thock! so like the collisions of rams. A quick swing of the flashlamp in the run from the gate to the front door lit a dizzying rush of water just inches below the new footbridge.
Michael Viney, A Year’s Turning
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