When Storm Floris hit, I was painting a room yellow. The wind swung round to the west and—boom!—the rain became horizontal. A few days later all the leaves on the windward sides of the trees had turned brown and crispy. Even the bracken went brown.
When Storm Amy hits, two months later, I’m driving to Glasgow. As I roll down the A9 what strikes me are the colours: through the blowing rain, they glow—reds, peaches, ambers, golds—all the hues that have been absent in Assynt. There’s even a bank of bracken near Pitlochry which is a perfect lucent yellow.
The sight of it soothes me, as if—for a moment—it meets my tumultuous heart and gives it shelter. I keep driving, turning up the windscreen wipers as the rain pelts down, but the colour stays with me, like morning sunlight, like welcome rest.
A9, Scotland
3rd October 2025