The Freedom Hill blog is functioning at last! After two years without an Internet connection, we’ve finally managed to get that huge piece of sculpture on our roof that connects us to the outside world. All hail the satellite dish!
Now here’s hoping the wind doesn’t blow it away.
Fall on the Rock is an experience in weather, and we happen to live in the second windiest place on earth; at least that’s what the locals say. And I believe them. The winds here have been known to blow in excess of 200 km an hour!
The first time we encountered the infamous sou’ easter, we were suitably impressed…and terrified. We were up and dressed at 4:30 am so that we’d be awake and aware when the house blew away. My god, the wind! You’ve never seen or heard the like. It roars across the valley like a freight train. You can hear it coming a full minute before it hits. And when it does, it tears apart anything that isn’t bolted into the bedrock.
But it’s fine entertainment, my son, trying to identify the bits and bobs flying by the windows at the speed of light. And there’s a rattlin’ good game of hide and seek to be had afterwards, as we comb the bog for wreckage.
On this particular morning we were sitting in the dark (we had no electricity then), but we could tell by the sound of the eaves trough hitting the side of the house that it wasn’t a pretty sight out there. We sipped coffee and waited for daylight, listening to the pounding of the heavens’ almighty fury and, if not exactly feeling the safest as the house rocked on its blocks, at least glad to be dry.
You see, along with the wind, we also get a bit of precipitation. Vancouver’s got nothing on it. A person could drown when it rains in Newfoundland. Even the frogs move to higher ground. In tandem with the wind, the rain is awe inspiring—torrential sheets of misery, blown horizontally with enough force to penetrate solid wood. We had long ago decided that what we should be building was not a house but an ark.
As we waited for the damage outside to be revealed, we became aware of the damage happening inside. It was the sound of running water that first alerted us. Not having that particular amenity, we were at first understandably puzzled, but we soon realised that the ark was leaking like a sieve, fore and aft. Water splashed from the roof; windows that hadn’t leaked in eight years of abandonment were now gushing rivers. Groovy.
We went back to our coffee.
By 7:30 it was light enough to discern odd shapes in the driveway and to notice the one odd shape that was missing—our outhouse. As the sky lightened, there, standing proud and unveiled in front of the house like a bizarre lawn ornament, was our toilet—a fine conversation starter if ever there was one.
Miraculously, none of the lumber pile or the outhouse had hit the truck, and we could salvage the bits and pieces of the eaves trough. The flagpole was listing hard to starboard, and the flag was in tatters, hanging by a thread. But by far the worst that daylight revealed was the sopping heap of what had just yesterday been our only pile of dry firewood. Here was a disaster of immense proportions.
Noon came and went as we digested the implications of our predicament. No wood, no warmth. The wind abated, but the deluge continued. There was little to be done. In the space of that one long morning we discovered what it is that makes Newfoundlanders so tough and why they drink so much.
We sighed, shook our heads and added Irish Cream to the coffee.
Much to our surprise, our little house survives these blasts, though by its shaking and shuddering you’d think it was about to go the way of the outhouse. Now here’s hoping the satellite dish—our lifeline to the world—proves as hardy.