The thunderstorms in Falmouth are awesome. I remember the one in my first year here when the lightning woke me at 4AM, and then came the booming thunder that violently shook the building and rattled the windowpanes.
Another flash of white filled the room leaving an imprint of light on my vision and I threw the covers aside and went to the window. The sky spat hail down so thick and fast it could only sustain it for a few seconds, but that was long enough to cover Station Road in a sheet of icy pellets that dully reflected the ghostly orange glow of the street light.
Then the thunder again. All the lights in Penryn town went out and I looked down at the blackness.
Snow makes a village of a city.
I grew up in London and Brighton where there are too many people and everyone’s absorbed in their own little worlds.
But on those rare occasions when it snowed in Brighton, strangers would smile at strangers and greet one another in the street.
After a day of fierce heat: late evening, late summer; the sea; the water warm and unusually clear for Brighton beach; just before sunset, the western sky blushing.
The skeleton of the West Pier adrift.
Abandon yourself to the rain and the inevitability of getting wet.
I’m not being pompous, I mean it literally.