The cold east wind shrieks in from the sea, and howls around the bay, whipping up nets, sails, rope-ends, cork-floats and cats!
The harbour huddle of old houses strain against the gale, leaning landwards at a crazy angle in a desperate bid to stop from sliding into the cold dark waters of the harbour.
They have pitted their wits, held firm, stood shoulder to shoulder for a hundred years and more, as force 9 Easterlies lash the the sea walls, causing the little boats and ancient houses to strain repeatedly against these great sea storms.
A wide dark ocean stretches out beyond the Breakwater, where black sea and sky merge. Only the ‘ on-off…on-off’ flicker of the Lighthouse beam, razor sharp in the ice-cold air, slices through the gloom, blinding the sleeping gulls and guillimots half frozen on the rocky perches.
This is a work-in-progress. Haze wants to add more in the future.