It was a dark and stormy night

It was a dark and stormy night in Caithness, located in the far flung corner of north east Scotland.  We had only moved into the house two month before.  It was now mid May. The horses were snuggled in their beds, except Richard, the Irish Draught x thoroughbred chestnut hunter who had travelled from Kent in air conditioned luxury while we drove an old van. 

Richard would not come in from the field for his feed.  So we left him out there on the cliff top.  He hated the sea with a passion and refused point blank to go anywhere near the beach, rearing and snorting and spinning if he thought were even approaching a beach.  He even knew if I was thinking about going to the beach.   Richard particularly hated the ships as they passed on the tempestuous Pentland Firth.  The ferry from Thurso to Scrabster had come over to the Dunnet Head side of the Firth instead of sailing directly for Scrabster, so we knew earlier in the day that there was going to be a storm at sea. Those captains know what they are doing in that dangerous stretch of water. 

The wind started to howl about 7pm and it got stronger.  Then it started to lash down with rain - horizontal rain driven by the prevailing winds from Scandanavia.  It beat on the conservatory roof.  The roof stayed on at least, but the windows bowed inwards with the pressure.  I couldn't watch and had already taken my precious books out of the conservatory and put them in the lounge.  It was a bit tricky as, although the house was big, it was a bed and breakfast with tearoom attached.  We weren't in full flow of the tourism season yet, but would need to rethink before long. 

There are very few trees in Caithness. Now we were beginning to understand why.  The wind scorched the trees of Dunnet Forest, mot of them at an angle as well.  Weather patterns in this part of the world mean nothing.  If you don't like the weather in Caithness, wait a minute.  Four seasons in an hour, let alone the day.

I digress.  I woke my partner.  It was about 2am.  "My goodness" I said. "Can you hear that wind?"  " I couldn't he grumbled.  "I was asleep."  I could hear the horses in the stable getting restless as the wind ripped at the roof.  "What about the geese" I asked.  "Did you put them in?"  "No" he replied.  "I thought you had." "Oh no, poor things.  They will be terrified and my Richard will be well cheesed off."  "Well, he should have come in when you wanted him to" Brian said.  "True, but you know what an awkward cuss he can be. Remember when he ran off with you and jumped the five bar gate into a field, and you couldn't get out because the gate was locked and there was a steep incline in the field so you couldn't jump out."   "What fun.  You had to go out into the lane and stop the traffic so we could jump out over the stile."  I sighed.  The horse of a lifetime - but a big awkward streak.  

I got out of bed. "What are you doing now?" Brian asked.  "going to get the geese and my Richard.  He'll be blown off his hooves.  He will want to come in now."  "Don't bet on it.  It's pitch black out there.  You shouldn't feed him so well, then he would want to come in.  I blame the Guinness you give him. " "Well, he is Irish" I said.  "He deserves a tipple when he is feeling low."  Brian grunted. "Nothing wrong with the horse.  He's better looked after than I am!"  I had my black silk pyjamas on.  I put my wellies on - green Hunter wellies of course.  First the socks, then a jumper over the top.  I hadn't got round to buying myself a wax jacket.  That would be the next thing. Summer was coming, wasn't it?  I decided to put my Laura Ashley dressing gown on, then my waterproof jacket and hood. "You look like Mrs. Michelin" Brian said. "Get up" I said. "You're coming with me."  "Are you mad?" he said, stubborn as a mule let alone Richard. "I'm not coming".  "Well, there's 120 mph winds out there, and it's lashing down.  You'll get blown away. " "I'll be fine" I said.

The wind nearly took the door off its hinges - stupid to have it opening outwards in a place like this.  I bent double against the wind as I went across the yard.  I got Richard's headcollar out of the tack room.  He was always scraping his off.  Wesley and the Highland pony, Tregarron, were distinctly restless.  Both had been born in Scotland, but south of Inverness, a different world.  I walked to the field gate.  No sign of the old horse.  He was 20 years old, he should know better.  The geese were just inside the gate - flat out, with their wings stretched out flat - long necks firmly fixed to the ground.  they had done this before.  Suddenly Brian appeared beside me.  He looked like Mr. Michelin.  We tried to scoop the geese up - one each.  They resisted.  Eventually we managed one at a time and put them in the shed.  Gave them some grain and water.  Now for dear old Richard.  Where the hell was he?  We both went outside again.  The wind and rain hadn't abate.  The waves were lashing up over the rocks known as the "Cletts", spraying us both with water.  At least it wasn't cold.  We called for Richard.  No sign of him.  Eventually we found him in a corner, back to the wind, looking distinctly uncomfortable.  "Come on old fella" I urged.  "Good boy." "Clear off" he seemed to say. "You have frightened the bejaysus out of me. I'm off."  We had left the field gate open.  No where for him to go except the yard.  After trudging 200 yards across a muddy field in the pitch black with only a small torch for a pin prick of light, we weren't best pleased.  Hey ho.  Richard thundered off in the dark - water streaming from his chestnut coat.  Straight into the yard.  Brian and I sighed.  What do you expect from a horse which used to climb out of his stable and get into the swimming pool when it was hot.  We trudged back to the yard - soaked to the skin.  Richard had undone one of the stable doors and let himself in with Tregarron. The door flapped in the wind.  Tregarron seemed glad of the company.  We went in and closed the door.  Brian made up a feed for all three horses to console them while I put Richard's headcollar on, tied him up and started the painstaking but necessary job of making him warm and dry.  At least there was straw on the floor and not woodchippings.

The moral of the story is, stay in bed when there's a storm whipping up in the north of Scotland.  Don't go out trying to rescue geese and horses. 

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