The power had been gone for a while when I came out from under the covers, felt around for my torch and made the run for my booze press in the kitchen. I grabbed the bottle of Micil whiskey and poured a good sup into a mug of half-drunk, cold, ginger tea.
Éowyn was in full battering bombardment and I was terrified.
Westport and its hinterland, where I live, was under a red warning from 4am but the shield-maiden from Middle-earth had started howling like a banshee hours earlier.
At that early stage of the onslaught I decided to move from my bedroom because it is overlooked by a most menacing looking tree, particularly when anarchy blows in across Clew Bay.
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Since novenas are not my forte, I snuggled under my duvet and proceeded to knit while box-breathing whenever the rafters shook. Every now and then I’d top up the stove with logs and jump back under the duvet, putting my hands over my ears for a little aural reprieve.
Whilst Éowyn was in a league of her own, this wild winter had already offered a few tutorials in protracted power cuts.
This has a particular irony for me since I lived on Clare Island for a number of years before mains electricity was installed in the early 1980s. Not only did I become accustomed to candlelight, but the toll of winter gales and storms was simply a normal part of life. This was still a time when the primary meteorological resource for islanders was to read the sky, observe the patterns of waves, the natural omniscience of animal life. There were no apps or indeed internet connections and mobile phones back then.
When dawn finally broke on Friday morning, the only thing turning over in my house was the clock ticking. All bars on my fully charged mobile phone had disappeared and my windows were covered in a thick film of Atlantic salt.
After I plucked up the courage to peep out the front door I discovered an apocalyptic scene. A huge tree splintered across the garden, a smaller one reclining over my oil tank, branches of every size and shape lying everywhere. However, I know I am one of the lucky ones and suffered no significant damage.
With no sign of electricity at my house for another few days, I also feel very fortunate that my friends offered me a room in their guest house near Westport Quay on Saturday.
You just have to laugh. Because their power had gone again, they couldn’t open the electric gates at their family home on the edge of the bay. Since all the fencing around the perimeter of the property had been blown down, the bould Pat decided to drive across the field and duly got stuck.
After their neighbour Farmer Fergal came to the rescue with his tractor, we finally all met for soup in a crowded cafe, followed by a short therapy session in Matt Molloy’s pub before I moved house.
As I write from my friends’ B&B on Sunday afternoon, Storm Herminia is blowing the occasional gust. Word is that electricity is due to be restored at the houses in my rural neighbourhood by Tuesday night. It looks like it won’t be the last time our brave ESB crews restore our electricity this winter.
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