For the last three days Zyphrus has roared and the horses of Poisedon have reared over the reef as the tempest raged…………
A full-blown North Atlantic gale is best described as a tempest stirred by the wrath of the gods. On the headland the storm force winds have a deep bass roar and as the gusts gather strength the sound waves roll into deep shuddering thuds. The rain arrives in icy squalls, falling as hard and heavy as a curtain of artillery shells, accompanied by a staccato rhythm of aqueous shrapnel.
Below the cacophony of the discordant air there is the constant surging rhythm of the sea. As the waves break over the rocks in an agitated fury of spindrift, a vapour of salt is released to etch the land with a desiccating, deadly frost. Beyond the reef the horizon undulates as the border between sea and sky is breached by white horses riding the storm tide.
Eventually Iris arrives to restore harmony painting an arc of serenity to heal boundaries between the sea, sky and land. As the warmth of the rainbow suffuses the monochrome storm wracked landscape a thread of sunlight gilds the clouds. Another storm passes, the ancient rocks of Ardivachar slumber on and island life resumes.