When the road becomes the sea.

A tale of a house at the edge of the weather

The wind.

It’s blowing so hard we can barely open the front door.

I try to look through the conservatory windows and squint; they’re coated in a blurry layer of salty sea spray. They’ve been this way for a week and will stay so until the wind decides to change direction. There’s no point cleaning them yet—the salt sheen would return immediately.

There was no swim today. The freezing wind and rolling waves said, I don’t think so. I agreed and retreated to the warm kitchen for yet another cup of tea.

Easterly winds like these aren’t that common. They’re more likely in winter and aren’t usually very damaging. There are exceptions. This particular stormlet has blown over a tree, which in turn knocked down part of the crenelated wall marking the boundary of the old castle estate. Like most things owned by the current proprietor, it’s unlikely to be repaired. It will remain a pile of rubble, though it does leave a healthy supply of firewood for the taking.

My garden gate slammed back and forth in the night, knocking off slats of wood that now lie scattered on the ground. Repairable—but not today.

My house sits at the head of an easterly-facing sea loch and takes the full brunt of the wind on days like this. On rare occasions, strong winds combine with a high tide and then all hell breaks loose. We’re right next to the shore: only about four metres separate the seawall from my garden gate. The road—by which I mean a rough track and my only way of getting anywhere—lies in between. When wind and tide join forces, the sea ends up on the road; the road, and some of my garden, become the sea.

It can look shocking. Last year there was a very unusual one-metre storm surge. It wasn’t windy that night—the storm had already passed—but when I went outside at eight in the evening, in pitch darkness, it was eerily quiet. When I shone my torch there was water everywhere. I found this alarming. It meddled with my balance and made me stumble. I felt stranded, walking on a pitch-black ocean.

Am I concerned that one day my house will flood?

No.

It’s an old house, built around 1830 as far as I can tell. It began life as a pretty two-storey cottage with dormer windows, before being altered into a single-storey bungalow in the 1960s. I found old files—typed on flimsy paper—that told the story of a house that flooded often enough to prompt a serious debate: renovation or demolition. Renovation won. The house was modernised, reroofed, and raised. The seawall was rebuilt to withstand higher tides, and so far that has been enough to keep the sea at bay.

If the sea tries harder, there’s additional protection in the raised floors, which should allow water to pass beneath rather than through the house—at least in theory. I’m hoping never to test it. None of this is ideal, and the seawall seems to have been designed—mistakenly, I suspect—so that waves dump water, seaweed, and shingle on the road right here, far more than elsewhere.

Unhelpful.

And with the onward march of global warming, the tides continue to rise—centimetre by centimetre, drip by drip—and storms grow stronger and more frequent.

On more than one occasion I’ve raked the road back into place and enlisted my daughters to jump on it as improvised compactors.

On more than one occasion the door of the iconic red phone box has blown off. I keep it wedged shut with rocks now to prevent a repeat. The old doors have become cold frames in various places; everything has a use.

Old houses are draughty and mine is no exception. My daughter and I are holed up in the kitchen—there’s little point venturing outside. Today it’s the warmest room in the house. I’m baking bread in between writing and crocheting. The rest of the house is Baltic, the icy wind extending its tendrils through every nook and crack in the walls. I’ll light the wood-burning stove soon and spread the cosiness into another couple of rooms. A fire is the best remedy for many things: the ancient ritual of making a home, a space of belonging. Wood crackling, flames mesmerising us into a trance, woodsmoke delighting our nostrils. Today there’s so much draw the fire will roar, and we’ll need twice as much wood.

The day is nearly done. We have fresh rolls from the oven to eat as we watch the grey sky slowly turn inky black. Lights from houses across the loch occasionally twinkle, reminding us that we are not alone.

But that wind—it’s still howling.