Mark Twain once said he counted over a hundred different types of weather in one day in New England. If he had lived here in Galicia, he would only have counted one - rain. My husband once told me that from the middle of September to the end of April all it ever did here was rain. Some days it would be a little more, some a little less, some days would be simply cloudy, but rarely would the sun be seen. These past few years, that's what has been happening. October rolls around and the sun makes only cameo appearances, pretending it'll stay a few days but going away sometimes after only a few hours.The upside are the green woodlands, emerald fields and gurgling rivers and streams that are spread throughout this verdant north of Spain. The downside is when a holiday comes along in the fall and you see on the news that on the Mediterranean coast temperatures are in the eighties and people are crowding the beaches as if it were August. And you look out at the grey skies and the rivulets of rain running down the window, where the thermometer marks sixty degrees, and say to yourself, "I'm living in the wrong town."
But yes, we do have summery weather. Only some years it doesn't show up till September. Or it shows up in May and June and then disappears until the end of August. This year a French meteorologist predicted that summer in most of Spain would be a no-show. Most people believed him. April showers had brought dripping May flowers for wet June brides. All hope had been lost until the last week of June and the first week of July when - lo and behold! A heatwave! The sun beat down like a hammer during the longest days of the year, making temperatures soar to close to one hundred. People pounded the floors of hardware and appliance stores snatching up all the fans. A few days into the heatwave when I went to buy one all I could find were the expensive room air conditioners (the recession is still too strong) and a few personal fans, which I had to content myself with. The beaches were end-to-end towels and parasols, and though the water was still cold it teemed with swimmers and non-mermaids splashing cool water on their reddening skin. The nights were worthy of the Carribbean, hot and unsleepable. Even the cats left us alone to find a cool corner somewhere in the house. My daughter slept outside under the grape arbor, sharing the night with the mosquitos. But that was only around a couple of weeks. After a little while the normal summer returned, temps in the upper seventies, beautiful sun and decent nights with the help of a light jacket. Except for a few days at the end of July with a little rain and drizzle, the summer here stuck its tongue out at the French meteorologist.
But now the rain is back. And at least for the next couple of weeks it'll stay here. As always, people will grumble and complain. The city people (among whom I count myself, though I live in the country) will rant and rave against the dark, watery days. Those who live off the land (my husband included) will say we need this period of rain to keep this land green and bountiful. For me the problem will be that December and January will wander by and if we see some snow it'll be way up in the mountains. The last time it snowed around here was over twenty years ago in 1986. The problem is that I love the snow. I remember snowstorms in Boston as a child in which I gloried. My mother used to tell me then that when I grew up and had to go to work every day I would stop liking the snow. Well, I grew up and had to go to work every day and I never stopped loving the snow. It always seemed like a magic to me, the flakes coming down quietly, the day filled with light and everything transforming from the ugly winter reality to a dreamlike illusion. The snow seemed simple and utter beauty to me, softening stiff winter lines of bare trees and touching man-made blight with infinity. Unfortunately, that miracle doesn't happen here in winter. Autumn turns into everlasting spring and winter touches only occasionally and kilometers away from here. Last winter it snowed nearby, so I took the car and one morning went and looked at the snow and sloshed in it a bit before it melted away. It was a link with nature and my past.
I suppose the Pacific Northwest must be similar to this. And western Ireland. When it rains, it rains and when the storms come screaming in off the Atlantic we cover our heads and let them roll over us. There's nothing else to do. When an explosive cyclogenesis rears its head and charges towards us meteorologists start warning what to do and what not to do. It sounds exactly the same as when a tropcial depression pushes up the East Coast. And that is what a cyclogenesis is, it's a sudden formation of a low pressure area with a sharp drop in pressure, causing strong winds and rains. It's not called a tropical depression because it originates in the colder North Atlantic. But the results are practically the same. Only, since we're so used to them here we are only warned to stay away from the shores, stay out of parks and as far away from trees as possible and to take all possible precautions with our cars. Schools and work are only cancelled if conditions are expected to be of hurricane proportions. Sometimes some roofs will be carried off, but generally little else happens besides fallen trees and flooded roads and basements and underground garages. Few storms cause real, million euro damages. Those are remembered in perpetuity, such as Hortensia over twenty years ago and Klaus about four or five years ago. They're the Spanish equivalent of Katrina though on a much, much smaller scale. Those storms cause important damages because they reach category one hurricane proportions. While we are used to difficult storms coming off the ocean, hurricane force winds and rains will be damaging to any community not in constant contact with them to prepare for them.
For the next couple of weeks, though, we'll be setting up our dehumidifyers and cursing the rain and grey skies. Before we know it the autumn-cum-spring will be gone and summer will be back. Though not before we feel we're about to grow scales and fins. One of the by-products of not living in sunny southern Spain, I suppose.
But yes, we do have summery weather. Only some years it doesn't show up till September. Or it shows up in May and June and then disappears until the end of August. This year a French meteorologist predicted that summer in most of Spain would be a no-show. Most people believed him. April showers had brought dripping May flowers for wet June brides. All hope had been lost until the last week of June and the first week of July when - lo and behold! A heatwave! The sun beat down like a hammer during the longest days of the year, making temperatures soar to close to one hundred. People pounded the floors of hardware and appliance stores snatching up all the fans. A few days into the heatwave when I went to buy one all I could find were the expensive room air conditioners (the recession is still too strong) and a few personal fans, which I had to content myself with. The beaches were end-to-end towels and parasols, and though the water was still cold it teemed with swimmers and non-mermaids splashing cool water on their reddening skin. The nights were worthy of the Carribbean, hot and unsleepable. Even the cats left us alone to find a cool corner somewhere in the house. My daughter slept outside under the grape arbor, sharing the night with the mosquitos. But that was only around a couple of weeks. After a little while the normal summer returned, temps in the upper seventies, beautiful sun and decent nights with the help of a light jacket. Except for a few days at the end of July with a little rain and drizzle, the summer here stuck its tongue out at the French meteorologist.
But now the rain is back. And at least for the next couple of weeks it'll stay here. As always, people will grumble and complain. The city people (among whom I count myself, though I live in the country) will rant and rave against the dark, watery days. Those who live off the land (my husband included) will say we need this period of rain to keep this land green and bountiful. For me the problem will be that December and January will wander by and if we see some snow it'll be way up in the mountains. The last time it snowed around here was over twenty years ago in 1986. The problem is that I love the snow. I remember snowstorms in Boston as a child in which I gloried. My mother used to tell me then that when I grew up and had to go to work every day I would stop liking the snow. Well, I grew up and had to go to work every day and I never stopped loving the snow. It always seemed like a magic to me, the flakes coming down quietly, the day filled with light and everything transforming from the ugly winter reality to a dreamlike illusion. The snow seemed simple and utter beauty to me, softening stiff winter lines of bare trees and touching man-made blight with infinity. Unfortunately, that miracle doesn't happen here in winter. Autumn turns into everlasting spring and winter touches only occasionally and kilometers away from here. Last winter it snowed nearby, so I took the car and one morning went and looked at the snow and sloshed in it a bit before it melted away. It was a link with nature and my past.
I suppose the Pacific Northwest must be similar to this. And western Ireland. When it rains, it rains and when the storms come screaming in off the Atlantic we cover our heads and let them roll over us. There's nothing else to do. When an explosive cyclogenesis rears its head and charges towards us meteorologists start warning what to do and what not to do. It sounds exactly the same as when a tropcial depression pushes up the East Coast. And that is what a cyclogenesis is, it's a sudden formation of a low pressure area with a sharp drop in pressure, causing strong winds and rains. It's not called a tropical depression because it originates in the colder North Atlantic. But the results are practically the same. Only, since we're so used to them here we are only warned to stay away from the shores, stay out of parks and as far away from trees as possible and to take all possible precautions with our cars. Schools and work are only cancelled if conditions are expected to be of hurricane proportions. Sometimes some roofs will be carried off, but generally little else happens besides fallen trees and flooded roads and basements and underground garages. Few storms cause real, million euro damages. Those are remembered in perpetuity, such as Hortensia over twenty years ago and Klaus about four or five years ago. They're the Spanish equivalent of Katrina though on a much, much smaller scale. Those storms cause important damages because they reach category one hurricane proportions. While we are used to difficult storms coming off the ocean, hurricane force winds and rains will be damaging to any community not in constant contact with them to prepare for them.
For the next couple of weeks, though, we'll be setting up our dehumidifyers and cursing the rain and grey skies. Before we know it the autumn-cum-spring will be gone and summer will be back. Though not before we feel we're about to grow scales and fins. One of the by-products of not living in sunny southern Spain, I suppose.
Comments
Post a Comment