West Wind

The mid-May Weather here has been unseasonally cold, with sudden violent showers of rain and hail. The swifts have withdrawn to await better things; only the doughtiest butterflies – holly blues (amazingly abundant this year) and speckled woods – are showing themselves, in the rare moments of relative warmth; and me, I'm back in my herringbone tweed jacket. The worst of it is the relentless, hard-blowing West wind. I'm no fan of strong winds, from whatever quarter, but the West is undoubtedly the worst, scrambling my brain in a way no other wind does. If I were to write an Ode to the West Wind, it would consist of three words: Cease And Desist. Or I might adapt the ancient lyric, with apologies to Anon: Westron wind, when wilt tha cease?Thy blowing drives me mad.All I ask is a little peaceAnd the quiet I once had.In the Mediterranean world, away from the rude Atlantic blast, the West wind is regarded as a welcome visitor, a soft, warm breeze, personified as Zephyr. (Even Chaucer talks…