“You awake?” asks Anne. It’s still dark, both out there and in here. I’ve been awake for nearly an hour. “Half,” I reply, staring up at the blackness.

“Are we safe?”

I think I can hear her heart pounding.

“I think so.”

I’m fairly confident. My experience in this area is limited, but I feel there is a certain amount of logic involved. The camper takes a big hit and rocks furiously. A winter storm, but not like any I’ve ever experienced. The metal roof buzzes with the incessant impact of the heavy rain. Big, fat drops, nearly horizontal. It’s been coming down like this ever since it stopped snowing yesterday morning. We are at the mercy of the howling, angry wind. The suspension creaks with every gust, the hull groans and trembles under the strain.

Gloria, they’re calling it. I’ve never been in a storm with a name before. We sat in bed reading the news about it last night until a blackout in the nearby town took out our internet connection. There have been reports of eight to fourteen-metre waves along the coast, and I’m now quite pleased that the road to our originally intended spot directly on a secluded beach was too steep for us to drive down.

There is a lull in the storm, and I doze off. A heavy gust awakens me, timed almost perfectly with a dream of the camper rolling backwards into water. Anne is audibly distressed. “We’re going to blow over!” It’s unlikely; I’ve already been up once tonight to point our nose into the wind. If our house can withstand the wind pressure of 120 kilometres an hour (a luxury reserved for long downhill stretches) on the motorway, it should logically require far higher wind speeds to affect us now. I think. I’m still fairly confident, but my heart is in my throat nonetheless; a primal response to the violence that has made us its unwilling audience.

The wind comes and goes in waves, silent one moment, clawing savagely at our thin walls and roof the next. We lie there silently, in the dark, listening to each gust approach, whipping through the trees and bushes outside, building in intensity and volume before crashing down on us with unreasonable rage. Flashes of lightning follow each other in quick succession, flooding the camper  with their electric glow through the small top window. Thunder rumbles on for what feels like minutes at a time. We are front row spectators to an explosive show of force by mother nature. The camper heaves and shudders with every wave, but aerodynamics prevail, and we don’t blow over.

The storm seems to have subsided somewhat by morning, leaving a trail of destruction and flooding in its wake. The sky has a strange yellow hue. It’s still raining, but the wind is calmer, save for the occasional gust. Our internet connection is working again; the power in town must be back on. The weather seems to be the same or worse all around us, so not much point driving on. Today will be a quiet day of working indoors, and maybe a nap.

Winter in the Costa Brava is not quite what I had expected.

“You awake?” asks Anne. It’s still dark, both out there and in here. I’ve been awake for nearly an hour. “Half,” I reply, staring up at the blackness.

“Are we safe?”

I think I can hear her heart pounding.

“I think so.”

I’m fairly confident. My experience in this area is limited, but I feel there is a certain amount of logic involved. The camper takes a big hit and rocks furiously. A winter storm, but not like any I’ve ever experienced. The metal roof buzzes with the incessant impact of the heavy rain. Big, fat drops, nearly horizontal. It’s been coming down like this ever since it stopped snowing yesterday morning. We are at the mercy of the howling, angry wind. The suspension creaks with every gust, the hull groans and trembles under the strain.

Gloria, they’re calling it. I’ve never been in a storm with a name before. We sat in bed reading the news about it last night until a blackout in the nearby town took out our internet connection. There have been reports of eight to fourteen-metre waves along the coast, and I’m now quite pleased that the road to our originally intended spot directly on a secluded beach was too steep for us to drive down.

There is a lull in the storm, and I doze off. A heavy gust awakens me, timed almost perfectly with a dream of the camper rolling backwards into water. Anne is audibly distressed. “We’re going to blow over!” It’s unlikely; I’ve already been up once tonight to point our nose into the wind. If our house can withstand the wind pressure of 120 kilometres an hour (a luxury reserved for long downhill stretches) on the motorway, it should logically require far higher wind speeds to affect us now. I think. I’m still fairly confident, but my heart is in my throat nonetheless; a primal response to the violence that has made us its unwilling audience.

The wind comes and goes in waves, silent one moment, clawing savagely at our thin walls and roof the next. We lie there silently, in the dark, listening to each gust approach, whipping through the trees and bushes outside, building in intensity and volume before crashing down on us with unreasonable rage. Flashes of lightning follow each other in quick succession, flooding the camper  with their electric glow through the small top window. Thunder rumbles on for what feels like minutes at a time. We are front row spectators to an explosive show of force by mother nature. The camper heaves and shudders with every wave, but aerodynamics prevail, and we don’t blow over.

The storm seems to have subsided somewhat by morning, leaving a trail of destruction and flooding in its wake. The sky has a strange yellow hue. It’s still raining, but the wind is calmer, save for the occasional gust. Our internet connection is working again; the power in town must be back on. The weather seems to be the same or worse all around us, so not much point driving on. Today will be a quiet day of working indoors, and maybe a nap.

Winter in the Costa Brava is not quite what I had expected.