The First Proper Gale

It came in on a Tuesday. The forecast had hedged for two days, the way it does when it cannot decide whether to frighten you, and then the sky went that low yellow colour I trust more than any app. Whisky would not settle. He did three laps of the kitchen and sat against the back door as if holding it shut himself.

What gets lashed down first

The polytunnel goes round first, always. Every peg checked, the door strapped rather than latched, and anything loose inside brought down to the ground where the wind cannot get a grip on it. Pots not heavy enough to argue with the wind on their own get moved in behind the wall, which earns its keep on a night like that.

What Whisky makes of it

He hates the waiting more than the gale itself. He knows it is coming off the moor long before I have checked anything, and once it is properly going he calms down. It is the build-up he cannot stand.

What it tells me about the winter ahead

Something always gets through. This year it was a bean frame I thought I had tied well enough. You learn which parts of the plot are honest about being exposed, and a bad first night usually means a season of watching that wall closely.