After a lovely week of blue skies and white floating clouds, of mist in the valleys and lush green hills -- the rains came. Oh, there was that one evening where a sprinkle of rain cut short a gathering at the village bench and made us all go home early. But that was nothing.
Yesterday's storm first started with warm winds and no rain. We had friends to the house and were enjoying lunch and catching up with news, when there was a strange whistling sound outside the window. A piercing whistling with intermittent high, childish moanings. The kind I've read about in gothic novels. The kind that happens in old, creaky houses with nooks and crannies. And, as I was thinking this, I realized that our house IS an old creaky house, although of stone, not wood; and it has enless nooks and crannies.
In the evening the bench crowd was again dispersed by rain, and this time the winds were cold, and they howled through the night. I have to confess, it was wonderful! For one thing, we were warm and cozy inside, reading mysteries and occasionally peering out the window into the dark night, sipping homemade wine and comparing books.
But I was also mindful of the old Irish tales of banshees and the like. Perhaps a howling wind is behind these tales of fairies and elves and troubled spirits. Galicia has a celtic history, and a strong emotional connection to Ireland, and Galicia is also full of similar tales.
Today the whistling winds continued off and on until the sun came out. In the morning light, the fields and hills were beautiful even in the rain: close-up so many shades of green; in the distance veiled by a misty curtain that muted the brilliance. And then the sun brushing the tips of trees and bushes with a golden glow.