It is odd to think that it is already the end of Spring.

Rumours are rife that it is ominously far

colder-far later that is normal. He had spied some seals on his return journey this morning. They
were on the seaweed infested rocky coast, around the corner from the causeway. He bundled her
into the car with the cameras. We shot off at a wild, careless speed but alas, after a careful deep
searching gaze - eyes sweeping back and forth, combing the area – it was revealed that they were
there no longer.

We parked recklessly near the edge, on the higher, opposite side of the bay and watched and waited.
Camera lenses crisply alert and ready - steadied against the dangerously high winds- waiting to
capture their prey.

It was low tide and the fierce weather phenomenon’s of the notorious gales often drives strange
sights onto the shores. The seals and others come in search of shelter from the feral demons that
rage, duelling beneath and above the storm-frenzied, treacherous ocean.

Strangely the sun was out and bright and if they could find shelter from the winds amongst the
rocks then they would lie and bask, secluded and seemingly ignorant of the chaos.

Throughout the night and morning a wild, unruly gale had been howling and raging outside.
Strange, vapour-filled and eerie blue skies - with a weather warning not go out.

Aye, but we did.

The menacing wind torpedoed us, screeching wildly that it would toss us off the steep hill and dash
us to shreds on the wet rocks below. But we turned our deaf ears and ignored its’ insane voice. We
sat inside the car and watched and waited. The car perched, precariously on the edge, and rocked
back and forth in an uneasy resistance to its foe.

Devilish high winds, savagely gusting. But luckily no rain. None of that driving, soul devouring
icy-raining this morning. That helped to make going out a little easier.

The wind whipped up weird, deathly-white squalls in the sea bay below us. It gathered and lifted
large, white sheets of water droplets up into the air. Suddenly almost teasingly, playing and then
throwing them violently along, in a line of ghostly madness.

Dangerously speeding onward and forward. Like a long, white raised bedsheet - billowing in the
wind.

Occasionally the life force of the white squall would steal a delicious madness in the light and
intense rainbow colours would saturate its length. Ever-moving, ever-changing colours swirled as it
raced forward - pushed by a tremendous force of wicked sea breath.

Then the uncontrolled sea-power would grow and build too strong and its fantastic creation would
shatter and fall. Loping and crashing to its watery death upon the frenzied waves.

High above, the shameless gannets soared, their meandering seekers path - oblivious to the
mindless, shrieking winds. Single-mindedly seeking, searching and then repeated sudden rapid
collisions (at incomprehensible speeds) into the thrashing waves - returning with beaks of freshly
caught, still wriggling fish.

We have seen a seal, at another location before. Always the same one - in the same place on
different days but it has been not seen for quite some time. It used to bob up and down spying at
the cars as they passed by on the narrow and tightly winding road that passed by its tiny bay.
Always one seal, mischievously but blatently looking and searching the land - looking sadly lonely.
Hauntingly bobbing up and down facing the land. There are legends here of selkies and this lonely
one longed for something, that much is sure.

While seals can be regularly seen around about, but in other locations, they have not been for a time
and that is a growing concern.

I have been restless to get a photo’s of them and although locals have seen groups of them in the
past, we have not. Nor have they been seen recently. Otters too abide here too but only three have
been spotted by us over the months and those all alone.

The foul weather brings them out to negligently feast on the killings of the storm. Seafood smashed
by the cruel winds on the rocks of the shore.

Later in the day now, I sit and gaze at the world outside my window. It is now grey and desolate
and I wonder at the mystery of the seals and the gales. Global warming or menacing primeval
force.

The constant and now rising winds, rip and tear at the door, clanging the postflap disconcertingly.
When winds rise and they are already dangerous high, then terrors await the dwellers on this far
shore.

Already last night our neighbours fence collapsed under the gale force winds and fell in the
darkness. First light revealed the source of the noise. Here it is a daily battle to keep things going
as they fall to pieces destroyed by the wind.

Why do folk stay here. To taunt and deny that primeval forces that formed the world. To eek out a
meagre living from the sea, quietly away from the madness of the world. Peace and tranquillity on
heaven days and madness and demons on hellish-ones.. To rock in anguish and tormented sorrow
at their men that are stolen - time and time again by the greedy sea-gods. Stolen to replenish, stolen
as a sacrifice for their daily plunders.

How can people survive here? The ebb and flow of broken haunted souls that scuttle about and
hide from strangers, in the shadows of their run down homes. Driven by a madness to cling onto
something that cannot be stolen from them because no-one can tame the madness of the land and
wind and sea. Many have tried but nearly all are driven away defeated with the icy driving rain and
wind pushing them away and they battle to find purchase for their broken pockets and souls.

Outsiders come here not. Because we don’t want you. We are no longer human enough, we have
half formed, half merged with the madness and you are not welcome. Our secrets are our own, you
will not have them. They are too dark, too slinging-slimy to wrest from our tormented half souls.

We survive because we have sold half of ourselves to the force that drives the madness and in
payment we can scrabble a while here and find a tenuous kind of purchase that none other can find,
though they seek it.

Money will buy it not. It comes from centuries of pain and suffering, echoing occasional smothered
laughter and hidden sparks of joy. A survival of a haunting defeated suffering of sheer poverty and
demented determination. Here also are the damaged ones who drink to forget, drowning themselves
in what they have seen and experienced and desperate that they have not been taken and have to
continue with their suffering. So they numb their ever inquiring, worm ridden minds. Numb-Numb
to blank out the poverty and forget. Drunken dead sleep of haunted men and women who are
defeated and destroyed but still have to live, their undead lives.