The Weather Girls, Two Dogs and Me

I am fascinated by weather systems.

My particular interest is not in the pictorial and rather patronising representations of big raindrops, oversized snowflakes or huge directional arrows for prevailing winds which the Met Office feel we are only able to cope with and comprehend in their brief broadcasts and finger in the wind forecasts after the news but the actual system as it passes overhead and in clear view.

I often point out to family members that it must be raining "over there" as I enthusiastically point at some distant black cloud or fuzzy horizon. If we subsequently travel to and through an unexpected downpour some minutes later I secretly mark the experience down to my practical and common sense approach to weather prediction.

In the same theme and sentiment as ' red sky at night, shepherd's delight' and the more ominous premonitions of bleary eyed farm workers if the day starts a bit ruddy looking I advocate that if it looks like it's going to rain, it jolly well might.

There is a majestic splendour in the contrast where a clear blue sky meets a sweeping mass of cloud in the approach of a new weather front. On a sunday in late June 2007 my son and I were basking in the hot sun under an unobstructed sky at a car boot sale. By about 11am we were commenting on the arrival of some of the largest cumulus nimbus I have ever seen. Towering fluffy white mountainous clouds. My son took some photo's which are still somewhere on my phone memory card. At 2pm this assault front opened up and in the next 36 hours caused large areas of Hull and the East Riding to disappear under water.

I enjoyed two full weeks of interesting weather systems on a family holiday on the Isle of Skye.

The micro-climate of the island guarantees rain. Our rented farmhouse was on a rocky bluff and a high point locally which was a definite positive on the basis that anuual rainfall can be as much as 7 feet a year. It rained, honestly, for the full 2 weeks our our stay with very few clear sky respites. The house had a conservatory on the west side and from here I could observe the waves of rainfall surge across the surface of the bay as they swept inland from the distant Rhum and Eigg island masses, bounce against the Cuillin mountains and then veer towards my vantage point.

I stopped announcing the progressive downpours when our 3 children threatened a mutiny to curtail their disastrous housebound vacation.

I did introduce my two daughters, at an early age, to the sheer terror of being caught in a nasty weather system. We had set off for a walk along the Humber shore, myself, two small girls and our two dogs, initially in reasonable and dry weather.

The plan was for a good circular walk from Hessle to North Ferriby on the river path and then the return leg along the main road. The dogs ran free on the safety of the track and I ambled along with the girls. My attention was drawn to a bank of very dark and ominous clouds coming towards us from the backdrop of the cement works across the river. In a minute the factory chimney was obscured  by a squally cloud. The mile wide river was soon under the black shadow of the cloud and then a mini tornado hit us.

The stinging rain was horizontal and speckled with hailstones. Instinctively the dogs gathered around us looking worried. I gathered up the girls and we crouched down in a huddle with my back to the airborne tide. The dogs nosed in between us.

The noise and volume of downpour was terrific.

The raindrops and icy pellets thudded down on the ground and splashed up our legs so that we were soaked through from below as well as above. I think we may have offered up a small, quiet prayer for salvation at that stage.

The whole experience felt like an hour but was over in a few minutes as the wind carried over and northwards. Humans and dogs alike stood up and dripped.

The girls had light anoraks but these were saturated so that they were now purpley dark rather than the original red. The air temperature had dropped dramatically in the vanguard of weather. I was now fearful of the girls catching a chill as they were starting to shiver.

Wind cheaters were improvised from the orange Sainsbury bags I usually carried to pick up dog pooh but fortunately had not used so far. The bottom seam of each bag could be pulled apart without ripping the polythene. The girls, against all previous parental guidance, put the now open bags over their heads like a blouson and their little arms through the handle straps. Practical considerations and an instant improvement in warmth outweighed any considerations of a tailored fit.

Next thing was to get moving. My dilemna was whether to turn back and retrace our steps to Hessle or carry on to Ferriby and arrange for my wife to pick us up. I did not have my mobile phone with me so we could not get things organised ahead of our arrival at relative safety.

Drip-dry onward stiff leg walking to Ferriby got my vote and we struggled along . The dogs were more than happy to be back on the lead and close by.

The last part of the river path was built over a former landfill and the storm had washed out parts of the river bank to expose waste and debris which added to our feeling of desolation. We had seen no other persons since leaving Hessle.

At last we reached the village sewage works and a hard sufaced roadway up to the first houses of the village. We all squashed into the white telephone box outside the church and made the call to be collected. By the time my wife arrived to collect us in the car we had well steamed up the kiosk in the early stages of drying out and amongst an overpowering odour of damp dogs.