Storm Ciara.

Storm Ciara.

It's probably safe to assume that Storm Ciara has completely blown herself out by now. The vagaries of the British weather are now almost legendary if only because there are times when the main topic of discussion used to revolve exclusively around the British climate. You may have forgotten about the winter solstice climate because other infinitely more riveting subjects have taken precedence. How relieved we must be to finally see the back of Brexit and everything that tested our nerves for the best part of three years- in fact beyond endurance at times.

But over the weekend we had other things to worry about. We were given more than sufficient warning and when the weather forecasters told us that the whole of Britain would be swept off our feet and then told us to batten down the hatches indoors we knew exactly what to expect. This one shook the foundations, played havoc with the occasionally creaking infrastructure of the country, left trains, buses and railway stations in a state of complete disarray and flux with little indication that it would get any better at some point this century.

This was called Storm Ciara and what a storm it was. It is at times like this when we begin to wonder why this meteorological phenomenon suddenly changes gender every time it arrives on British shores. What next? We could advance the case for Storm Donald but that would incur the wrath of a certain American president. The blond one from the White House would become mortally offended and fake storms the recurring theme in the Oval Office. You can see Donald Trump now, bristling with red blooded fury and indignation, ready to take any Fox TV weather forecaster to court.

Here in England though we were more less calm and restrained if only because we've seen weather like this in all of its many manifestations during the winter. We are now at the beginning of February and so far so good. After the usual torrents of biblical rain that never really looked like letting up for quite a while it was somehow inevitable that there was something behind all of all those drenching downpours. What we could never have bargained for was a major storm with a female influence.

For the last week the acoustics and sound systems have dominated our every day lives. In fact for some time it almost felt as if we were living in some eerie medieval castle, a gothic sanctuary ideally suited for some lyrical story written by Edgar Allan Poe. So there we were sitting on our sofa when, suddenly, somebody turned up the volume. For the best part of an hour it bombarded our ear drums, a whistling, wailing, crying, whimpering, sobbing, pleading, calling noise that sounded rather pathetic and heartbreaking. It was as if Mother Nature was airing her grievances, bawling out her objections and not best pleased.

And yet at times like this that you feel at your cosiest, protected safely from the howling, the rattling, the caterwauling, the shaking and swaying of our neighbours washing line, the blustering gales, the incessant tapping against the walls, the statement of discontent and the emphatic announcement of a British storm. The winds strengthened appreciably and most certainly vociferously, shouting angrily at the top of their voices and then reaching a most moving crescendo.

At some point you half expected the weeping violins to join in with the rest of the orchestra. There was somehow a deep, emotional resonance to Storm Ciara that almost moved you to tears. Then the shrieking and whistling seemed to reach a peak and you felt sure that a clap of thunder would be heard or a flash of lightning would light up the dark Manor House sky in North London before Peter Cushing and Vincent Price entered the stage with that sinister laugh and cackle.

Outside on the streets the telegraph poles were dancing about quite majestically, tree branches flung and twisted about wildly and wantonly while in the distance umbrellas were salvaged after another windy outburst. Somewhere small figures could be seen scurrying for the cover of warm and welcoming bus shelters. The rain against our window sounded like a memorable Gene Kelly tap dance intent on winning an Oscar.

Storm Ciara has undoubtedly made her presence felt. She's blown through our shires, counties, cities, our farmhouses, our winding country lanes, our terraced homes, our flats, the concrete jungles and the houses that seem to be strung together like a set of pearls before sloping off to distant hills. By the end of the week Storm Ciara will be consigned to history, a slightly disconcerting memory perhaps but nonetheless fresh in the mind.

We may only be in February but it can't be long before somebody mentions snow, freezing cold days that seem to go on for ever. Then the doom and gloom of another British winter will probably make its entrance although it is hoped that if it does it won't hang around for too long. We are still hoping that the first reminders of spring are about to make a welcome appearance. Some of us recently spotted the first snowdrops which in itself is pretty remarkable given that snowdrops normally come out at the same time as the cuckoos.

Wherever you are though Storm Ciara has now come and gone. It was an alarming visitation and maybe we'll never see its like again. Rumours of global warming have to be taken with a pinch of salt and the experts will undoubtedly tell us that something strange is going on out there. Still, we can only hope that when Storm Donald does materialise a certain American president will not be issuing threats to all and sundry. Don't panic Donald Trump! It may never happen.