Ours is a land of rivers. Nearby, the Ure, the Skell and the Laver all course through Ripon, and the Ripon Canal peacefully splices the town in two. Local gravel pits end their working lives transformed into watery nature reserves. We’re approaching the time of year when, because of the surrounding water, morning mists envelop the landscape. I relish those early hours when quiet descends with the mist, muffling sound, slowing us down and encouraging us to savour these peaceful moments.
In my opinion, storms are best appreciated from behind closed curtains, when I’m curled up with a good book. If a roaring fire can be arranged, so much the better.
Nevertheless, there’s something thrilling and energising about the power and drama of a storm, whether it’s by being hurled sideways by a potent and tyrannical wind; half-drowned by an unrelenting downpour; or by experiencing ocean waves careening coastwards. Unless you’re on board a ship, as I once was, enduring a six hour crossing that should have taken an hour and a half. That was NOT thrilling at all.
But because of my preference outlined above, I can only offer pictures of the precursors to, or aftermaths of storms. Oh, and a few rainstorms.
Just a few rainy images in monochrome: two are naturally (almost) monochrome – that’s rain for you. The other one is processed from colour.
And here’s more aftermath: flooded fields near York, spotted from a train window: and trees at Studley Royal, broken by Storm Otto in 2023.
And, just as my header photo celebrates a storm about to arrive, my final photo shows its aftermath, and the promise of finer weather ahead.
This last month, I’ve seen a lot of the sea. Travelling under it, to get to France; living beside it in Premià de Mar; and sailing over it to return to England. I’ve seen it in all its moods, and I’ll show a selection here for Sarah’s The Sea Challenge for Leanne’s Monochrome Madness.
There’s the sea when it isn’t there, because the tide’s out…
Heysham, Lancashire.Dumfries and Galloway
And when it’s placid, even in the middle of the North Sea …
The North Sea
When it’s a little bit frisky, whether in Saltburn or Spain…
SaltburnSpain
Or limbering up for a storm, in Staithes or Saint-Malo….
StaithesSaint-Malo
Or just making a statement, as it is here in Igidae …
I haven’t got a truly stormy picture of a truly stormy sea. These pictures taken at Sandsend near Whitby, and at Igidae on a very windy day will have to do. They were bad enough for an unwilling matelot.
Jude, of Travel Words fame, is encouraging us to post pictures of benches on Sundays. To celebrate being back home, and while it’s still winter, I’m going for a snowy view from the window I’m currently staring through. It’s not snowing today. Just bitterly cold. I’d ventured out one crisp February (yes, February!) day to snap the featured photo.
By the way. We are going to be entirely internet-free most of this coming week. I doubt if I’ll be able to read , post, or anything else internet-related during that time.
We drove from Arras to Beaune today, having seen almost nothing of Arras, because my evening stroll yesterday in atrocious rain left me with a coat I actually had to wring out. Today was little better. In fact the vanishing point on the motorway planned as today’s contribution vanished itself in a welter of sleet, rain, fog and thoroughly English style bad weather.
Anyway, later we spotted some (sorry to be pretentious, but I genuinely can’t remember the English word) geometric éoliennes. Here.
So that’s two squares today, and the weather improves tomorrow! We hope …
It’s time for Squares again. It’s a month when Becky takes up her place on the Blogging Podium to orchestrate photographic offerings from all over the blogosphere. Just two rules. The photo must be square, and this month, its theme must be Geometry.
I’m scheduling my post. As you read it, we’re probably battling extremely high winds as we drive to the south coast on the first leg of our journey to Daughter-and-her-Family-in-Spain.
We should be travelling by cross-channel ferry. But even if it sails, I don’t want to be on it, so we’re going instead by train under the Channel, courtesy of Le Shuttle. I’ve picked a shot taken on a different ferry journey, crossing the North Sea from Rotterdam to Hull. Those decks look suitably angular to me. And the day wasn’t even a little bit stormy.
WP again! I was careful to tick all the right boxes in order to schedule this post: something I’ve done many times before. As you may have realised, good old WP published it anyway, immediately. And I deleted it, immediately. Here it is again. Grrr. Sorry.
In 2010, we were living in France, and often made the trip back and forth between our home there and England courtesy of the cross-channel ferry from Boulogne to Dover. One April, in 2010, we had a Bad Experience. This week, we’re off to Spain, by the same route (well, Dunkerque rather than Boulogne). And the forecast is beyond awful. By the time we arrive in Dover, there will have been 50 mph + winds for more than 24 hours, rising to 70 mph as we arrive. Reader, we have cancelled the ferry (but lost our money) and booked the Chunnel instead. Why don’t you sit in front of a cosy fire and read about our Bad Experience?
Life on the Ocean Wave?
We generally cross the English Channel by ferry. Neither of us is keen on the Tunnel, and a nice breezy trip on a boat always seems a cheery, day-out-by-the-seaside way of travelling between England and France.
Not that Dover’s much fun. Despite having some elegant and interesting buildings, Dover always seems a dingy, down at heel and down-on-its-luck sort of place. And this time, it looked as if we’d have longer than usual time to kill there, because LD lines sent a late text saying our ferry would have to leave at 1.30 p.m., not midday, and we’d arrived in town just before 10.00.
Why not go down to the port, then, and see if the ship before had been delayed, and whether it could perhaps squeeze us in? Down at the booking office, the news was that because of atrocious weather, the 6.30 a.m. sailing still hadn’t been able to leave. But it was loading, but if we hurried, we could go too.
We hurried. We caught the ferry. We regretted it. Even behind the harbour walls, the ship was pitching and tossing. As we started our voyage, the well-named tug DHB Doughty struggled to keep us on some kind of suitable path between the harbour walls. Out among the waves and spray of the open sea, the ship immediately started to lunge, roll, and sway, and kept up this uneasy surging throughout the trip.
I’ve always been a rotten sailor, but told myself firmly that this time it would be different: it was just a case of mind over matter. Less than 10 minutes later I was sick for the first time.
Nearly an hour and a half into our hour and a half journey, the French coast was nowhere near. Then the captain announced that some cargo had come adrift, and we’d have to stop till it was sorted out. Half an hour passed. Then yet again it was Our Captain Speaking. There was, he said, a Force 10 gale going on. He didn’t propose to risk getting into the harbour in Boulogne in these conditions. We’d just have to sit it out. I went green. I went yellow. I went glassy eyed. I used up several sick bags. So did half the passengers. The other half (including Malcolm) only had boredom and ailing partners to contend with, but they weren’t having a lot of fun either. Malcolm struggled off to find water for me, and found broken crockery all over the cafeteria, books and souvenirs strewn over the shop floor, and the toilets awash. He lurched back empty handed, though stewards came round with water and sympathy later on.
And we sat, hunched miserably in our seats, until finally, the captain reckoned there was a slight change in the weather. At last the French tug Obstiné brought us into port . Those tugs with those inspired names were the cheeriest things about the whole journey.
The photos show the sea hitting the harbour in Boulogne. That’s the sea as it lost power and hit the coast, not the raging sea we’d been putting up with in what felt like mid ocean. For six long hours.
Next time there’s a storm, I ain’t sailing. I’ll just sit it out on dry land.
Thanks everyone for commenting about the Featured Photo debacle. It looks as if the problem may lie with our phone settings (particularly for Android users), and sorting this out is currently beyond me. As reading your posts and commenting either on them, or on my own posts may be too – for the rest of the week – as we plan for and embark on our 1800 km journey in less than ideal conditions.
Our local Nature Reserves tend to be chilly in December. Especially when, as today, the wind is making its presence felt. Best to rush round the bulrushes and hurry home for a mug of hot chocolate. Sunny days, though, are available, for a gentler amble. My header photo is from Nosterfield on a sunny day. A wintry trip to Staveley was distinctly nippy,
Back in 2012, we were living in France. And if we’d believed the doomsayers, not for very much longer. Here’s the story as I told it on my blog, after we’d spent the day with our walking group near the Pic de Bugarach.
Bugarach: ‘Doomsday Destination’
December 15th 2012
The castle at Coustassa glimpsed through the mist
Cold. Pale thin fog baffles the contours of the hillsides, and those of the distant castle at Coustassa. Glimmering frost bristles the short maquis grass beneath our feet. A watered lemony sun high above us attempts to burn winter away, and eventually does so.
The mists begin to clear
That’s when we have our first view of Bugarach – shown in the featured photo – the imposing thick-set mountain which dominates this part of the Aude, because it stands alone, rather than as part of a range, and today is pretty much thatched in snow.
‘According to an ancient Mayan calendar, at some point towards the end of 2012, the world will come to an end.
It is not clear how that will happen, but apparently humanity does not stand a chance – except for those who seek shelter in the area surrounding Bugarach.
Just 200 people live there all year round, but doomsday believers and spiritual groups are convinced the village has magical powers, thanks to the local mountain – the Pic de Bugarach.
For years, rumours have circulated on the internet that extra-terrestrials live in the mountain, and come the apocalypse, the top will open and they will emerge with spaceships, and rescue the local inhabitants.’
Although it’s quite hard to entertain the idea that the mountain might have some sort of underground UFO car park, there are plenty of people who have done so, and with great fervour. Here’s today’s Daily Mail, which has been talking to Jean-Pierre Delord, Mayor of the tiny village of Bugarach (pop. 176).
‘On Wednesday, he will close the village for five days to anyone who doesn’t live here or isn’t already booked to stay, and draft in hundreds of police, military, firemen and Red Cross to ban any gatherings, shut off the mountain and arrest anyone silly enough to try flying over it.
‘What if tens of thousands of people turn up?’ he says, throwing his arms up in the air. ‘I have no way of knowing what will happen. I have no crystal ball! I don’t care if people want to chant naked or talk to the trees, but I have to protect my villagers. I am responsible for them.’’
He’s not over-reacting. Local house-owners have been able to rent out their homes for the period in question for astronomical prices, and even camping spots are going for 400 euros a night. For most locals though, the whole thing is at best a nuisance, at worst a real headache. The nearer we get to December 21st, the more people descend on the area, and the police and army are already involved in keeping order.
We enjoyed our views of Bugarach, as ever. We spent time pretending to look for UFOs and generally mocking the New-Agers who are so convinced by the end of the world as we know it. Then we got on with the business of enjoying our walk in the here-and-now. Here are a couple of photos showing what else we saw that day
This is a walk past dozens of capitelles: shelter for sheep farmers & vineyard workers in former times.Glance away from Bugarach, and you’ll see the Pyrenees.
Update: December 14th, 2024. As you see, we’re still here. And so are you.
From Pyrenees to Pennines 
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