
I was something of a wild child (no, not sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll!). I mean that I had to be outside all day, every day. Fortunately I had a Mum and Dad who understood me and (in those more care-free days) would let me spend hours out on the moors and the sea cliffs nearby. I would return home with wind-tangled hair and eyes full of the wonders of the outdoors.
For me the wind was a presence. I loved it like I did the sea. Sometimes I would stand on the harbour pier, getting buffeted and scoured through to my bones. Other times I would lie in some fragrant hollow of heather and harebells and listen to the sky larks overhead while the wind breathed warm and soothing on me.
Eventually I moved to other places and although I was often glad that the climate was milder and less wind-driven, I think I always miss the winds.
I love the way the light is changed all the time by the wind scudding the clouds. I love the way leaves sparkle and glitter as the winds tear at them. I love the way a field of barley will look like the waves of the sea as the wind brushes across it. I love the clean smell and sense of wild spaces.
The winds really are the messengers the ancients taught about. They tell us about the places they’ve come from - from pristine Northern wastes to the hot dry Sahara. Swallows get blown in on them in spring and geese battle the headwinds in autumn.
How exciting is that!
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