27th November 2016

What is it about Thursdays? Growing up, strange things always seemed to happen on that day. This week was stormy. No, not election storms, though heaven knows it's still ongoing....in the US someone's paying to have those marginal State votes recounted....in the EU the clown they call Boris is making us all look foolish, and here in France, with Sarkozy now out, it's a race between Fillon and Juppe. However, Meteo France predicted storms in the Aude region, south-east of us. No problem then; we should avoid the worst. Wednesday night was indeed very windy, but we felt safe in our strong stone house. But, early Thursday morning Bruno alerted us, going berserk as tremendous waves of thunder and lightening crashed down above our heads. Dawn arrived bleary-eyed as we surveyed the worst. Our beautiful giant, century-old lime tree - one of a matching pair - was down, together with two birches. Feel so sad for the remaining lime, standing so alone and forlorn amongst the debris. Have always felt an affinity for trees, living/spiritual things and when they die/fall, I have real fears. Didn't help that, just then, before I'd had time to tidy up, our buyer arrives unexpectedly with viewers of 'his' house!!....Meantime, it appears Thursday is named from Thor, the Norse god, and Jove, Roman god - both noted for creating thunder and lightning!  Well, there you go then.

22nd August 2008

There are two things that make Bruno go beserk, other than the dog next door: guns and thunder-storms. Yesterday was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky, but I should have guessed from the actions of the old lady who lives in the back lane. Somehow she always knows. The last thing I remember was seeing her shutting and barring all the heavy wooden volets to her house. Suddenly, Blackpool Illuminations blinded us through the open window, followed by a tremendous roar. Blearily I looked towards the night sky, just in time to see a jagged lightening bolt strike with lightening force, followed almost instantaneously by the loudest bang I have heard this side of world war two. Rather like Tchaikovsky's Fifth, the heavens resounded to wave after wave of cymbals and timpani. Him indoors rushed outside in an attempt to shut our own wildly-swinging volets, swearing as he was hit with a blast of wind-lashed rain that angled under the overhang of our tiled roof. As I leaned out, all I could see was Buster Keaton struggling against the odds to shut the volets against the prevailing wind as the hurricane-strength storm was now battering the house from all angles. But, as with everything round here if you're patient, the storm eventually receded, followed in its wake by hours and hours of relentless pounding rain. Bruno, of course, went berserk as expected. And I? I decided, in my wisdom, that the only thing to do was to put the slavering Bruno and the now-drenched Buster Keaton in the sous-sol under the house to quieten down, whilst I relaxed to Jacqueline du Pre's lilting strains on the cello. Well, what else can a poor old ex-pat do?