Natures Force

There is a specific kind of silence that only exists after a 105 mph wind has finished its argument with the coast.

Last night, Storm Goretti wasn’t just weather; it was a presence. Inside our cottage, with the ceilings following the roof’s steep pitch, we didn’t just hear the storm—we lived inside its breath. When the barometer dropped to 962 hPa, the air felt thin, charged with a strange, heavy anticipation. It was the atmosphere itself holding its breath before the “Sting” arrived.

The Invisible Shield

As the Northwest wind began to roar—a sound that felt less like air and more like a physical weight—I thought about the “Old Cornish Builder” who stood on this roof years ago.

He didn’t just lay tiles; he wove them. With steady hands, he “tingled” the leading edges, tying each slate with a strand of copper wire. It was a meditative act of foresight, a conversation between a craftsman and a storm he knew would one day come. Last night, that conversation continued. While the wind-howl reached a crescendo, the house didn’t groan. It held.

The Scattered Pieces

Walking out this morning, the world felt washed clean, but rearranged. The “Pendeen Lottery” is a humbling thing to witness. On my grass, I found slates that weren’t mine—stray pieces of a neighbor’s sanctuary, carried on the wind’s back. Further up, the North Inn stands battered, and the first cottage on the terrace bears the scars of being the first to meet the Atlantic’s punch.

In the churchyard of St John’s, the fallen trees remind us of our own fragility. These giants, rooted for decades, were brought down in a three-hour window of chaos. It is a stark contrast to the small things that survived; my daffodils are flattened, their early blooms pressed into the mud, yet they are still there—stubbornly present, waiting for the salt to be washed away.

The Lesson of the Table

Perhaps the most meditative lesson comes from the mystery of the disappearing table. A four-foot glass top, weighed down by galvanized tin, vanished “without a trace.” It reminds me that no matter how much we try to “weigh down” our lives or secure our surroundings, there are forces that can simply lift it all away.

But there is beauty in what remains. The locals are out with chainsaws, clearing the Newbridge road not out of obligation, but out of a quiet, shared necessity. The cats have emerged from their duvets, blinking at the sunlight as if the night’s violence was merely a dream.

Finding the Center

To my Wellbeing Walkers: today, we stay home. Not out of fear, but out of respect for the “aftermath.” The granite is slick with salt, the canopy is heavy with “widow-makers,” and the air is still settling.

Take this day to be like the copper-wired roof. Stay grounded, be resilient in your own quiet way, and if you feel a little “rattled” by the night’s roar, remember that even the most violent Sting Jet eventually runs out of breath. The sun is drying the salt on the windows. The kettle is on. We are still here.

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The Echo of Silence: Saturday at Long Rock

By Saturday afternoon, the sky had cleared to a pale, fragile blue. Mary and I took our coffee down to Long Rock beach—our favorite spot to watch the tide. But as we sat there, the usual comfort of the view felt different.

Across the water, the familiar silhouette of St Michael’s Mount looked strangely altered. Even from a distance, we could see the gaps—the jagged, empty spaces in the treeline where nearly a hundred trees had stood just forty-eight hours before. It was as if the island had been thinned out, made colder and more exposed.

Mary turned to me and said, “Something feels strange.”

I knew exactly what she meant. It was an “other-worldly” feeling I hadn’t felt in years. It was the same heavy, expectant silence we experienced sitting in this exact spot during the first few days of the 2020 lockdown. It’s the sound of the world being “reset.”

When a storm like Goretti passes, it doesn’t just take roof tiles and trees; it takes the noise of our daily lives with it. The roads were quiet, the trains were still silent on the tracks behind us, and the usual bustle of Marazion was replaced by a slow, stunned stillness. In that moment, sitting with our coffee, the sea wasn’t just calm—it was contemplative.

It reminded us that whether it’s a global event or a 105 mph “Sting Jet,” there are moments when nature reminds us to stop, to look at the gaps left behind, and to appreciate the simple, quiet act of still being here.