The plough, the fields and scatter

I was debating where I would take my lunchtime amble when the freedom of choice was stolen by a ringtone. A phone message was warning me there were 15 minutes until my attendance was required at a seminar. Later, as I sat around this large table with other delegates, by a console supporting a complimentary buffet of sandwiches, nibbles, cakes and fruit, my focus wandered from note jotting to the window. The lampost tops were swinging around and the adjacent trees, now orange and yellow, were bending in unison. Every so often there would be a proper howler and a couple of dozen leaves would be ripped from their nests, followed by another couple of dozen a few moments later. In the sky the sun shone brightly on fast paced clouds. This was the outer edge of Hurricane Gonzalo.

I recognised my photo chances were dwindling. Maybe clouds on camera later in the evening? But when at six I drove home, while the sun was still out and the skies were deep blue, the clouds were nowhere to be seen. I called in at the castle in case of emergency. Walking the track with a strong wind in my face, I'd say no more than 20 paces later, I had to wipe tears from my eyes.

Back home, amid the hulabaloo of 2-Pac, trance and the telly, and news of family days, I changed into wintry stuff. Cath was off to choir practice at seven, so I said cheerio and headed back to the castle. Donning my balaclava (an old Phoenix goretex windproof, a favourite bit of kit) and over that a headtorch, I passed through the stile and onto the track as I had done not an hour earlier. The old oaks lining the castle's outer ditch defences reared and bucked as the wind tore through. And as s I scuttled along I was mindful of the poor lady from London who that day had lost her life to a tree felled in the storm. I was planning to go beyond those oaks to where thorn trees line the hedge and to a gate with views back to the castle. It was here I staked my pitch.

Angling back to the castle, there were cloud packs travelling from side to side, picked out by the amber of Kenilworth's street works. This view occupied me for about half an hour until I recognised that over my left shoulder, was the familiar sign of the Plough. In this direction smaller clouds were scattering from the brightness of Solihull and Birmingham's airport to a position overhead.

It was half eight by when I left. I only ever had myself for company. And as I'd watch the seconds count by on my timer and sometimes mutter recommendations to myself, I remember wondering that if I was going to speak, then why on earth did I need to whisper so quietly. I wasn't recording sound. Perhaps out in that black, I feared awakening a hoard of hardened, battlefield ghosts.