THE neighbours could have heard us, leastways, the cat hid under the sofa. At 6.27 on a late January evening, the lights came back on. An assault on the senses – the front room illuminated. Out in the yard, my brain registered its meaning, but still it took a moment, stalled in disbelief.
Running in through the garage, into an unfamiliar space – our kitchen – every corner lit up. Through another door, roaring, “It’s back, the electrics are on!” Shrieks of delight as my daughter emerged, dancing down the corridor, soaking up the light. Trying to trust our eyes, five days since Storm Eowyn smashed its way across the country, our power had returned.
The hurricane made landfall early last Friday, forecast with unusual accuracy. Hammering westerlies gathered pace, screaming in from Donegal Bay. By 6am,100mph gusts were hitting us, while somewhere in Galway, the strongest Irish windspeed ever recorded tipped 114mph. Only last night, we had fled Belfast, just in time to avoid a motorway crash. We awoke to complete darkness, nature’s raw power in charge outside.
Sternly worded government texts buzzed our mobiles. Crystal-clear: “Stay at home!” I nervously recalled our townland meaning: Drumskimly, “ridge of the storm.” We busied ourselves overturning picnic tables, hiding bins and anxiously eyeing the cars on the driveway. Batten down the hatches, go indoors, light the wood-burner and sit tight. Tomorrow’s rush hour would be measured not in horsepower, but on the Beaufort scale.
We embraced home comforts, often unheeded. Enjoying the last episode of ‘A Frozen Embrace’, then exploring our consciences with Squid Games. Around 10pm, a squall came prowling, the storm clearing its throat. Messages no longer received or sent, windows clunked shut, the garage door double locked. “Where’s the cat?”, a contented creature Coco, unwilling to relinquish any more lives, curled up on the sofa without a care in the world. Later, torches at the ready, we retired.
Peeping through the curtains at dawn, trees being bent double as waves of wind power pummelled the hedgerows. Three donkeys finding shelter where they could. The garage became the kitchen, camping stove pressed into action. Our country lane, quiet enough at the best of times, devoid of all movement..
And then, as quick as it came, the onslaught went. Cautiously surveying the damage, a bird cherry crunched through the garden fence; tarpaulins draped haphazardly on fences; potted plants in disarray.
As winter’s darkness descended again, our thoughts turned to eating, and a plan was hatched. To see lights; eat hot food; be nosey. Halfway into town a tree splayed out across the road like a giant hand. Wires stretched to the limit and snapped; the whole valley enveloped in inky blackness. Trying a back road, we made it through. Stopping for milk in the garage, candles long sold out, we head on. Passing take-aways I’d never known existed – all featuring long queues. Though rural refugees, we are not alone.
Pizzas, tacos, cokes and a beer but crucially, for teenagers, phone service. How will this generation survive, if not bathed in blue light? Back to basics at home, a wood burner and whatever candles we can muster.
In front of the flickering flames we form an impromptu band, led by the singer and guitarist, armed with a bodhrán, maracas, even a mouth organ. The weekend passes, punctuated by baths, books, jigsaws and wishful holiday guides.
Back in town, drinking an extra coffee we learn of a fallen tree blocking access to a friend’s house. My son and I drive there, passing the afternoon dismembering the tree, dismantling sausage and egg butties, discussing how these shared experiences draw us together. Across the fields, an insistent alarm whistling a piercing tune. It warns the electrics are off, “Yes, we know!”
On the fifth day, we hear this may become ten. Spirits drop as my wife (almost!) prefers to stay at work for longer. The tension lifted by a brisk walk on the beach and a generator, though only fit for a lightbulb or two. The stress test from the west has passed, the pressure rises and the temperature drops.
The silent and invisible force of electricity succumbs to the elemental force of wind, visible by what it leaves in its wake. How much we take for granted, yet still we count our blessings from underneath the covers and behind the double-glazing. This is not Ukraine, where Russian bombs rain down on people and power stations. We’ve nearly forgotten those long dark days already, “back to normal” as they say. Time to give the generator to someone less lucky.
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