Like some fabled ­monster of the deep, the storm rose in the dark ­caverns of the Atlantic and headed for land. It hit us on the south-west coast, and then roared up the country. Slightly diminished by the time it reached our neck of the woods, nevertheless it raged in the garden: a bull kicking and rearing in the confined space. As I went outside to shore everything up, a gust’s bucking hoof sent me staggering. Bellowing, the savage squall vaulted the fence and swept next door. For the rest of the night the rodeo continued, but no cowboy could have ridden that wind. Battering the house, the storm’s icy breaths penetrated us in the draughts ­cascading through every aperture. We listened to its roar shaking the window panes, and then heard it come up the side of the