Sounds like an old IRA film title – but it’s true – Hurricane Conor did blow the doors off that his roughty toughty sister Babs had missed. It happened sometime between Christmas Eve and Santa’s visit.
A delayed start to Christmas Day while we opened our presents saw me blinking into a driving hail storm about mid-morning to find – or rather not find – the missing front door from the heating oil burner cabinet. A change of wind direction that was sending rain- hail and all sorts of sh*t into the electrics wasn’t doing the thing much good either.
A search over the downwind hill revealed it unscathed in a bush. I wedged it back into position with a handy rock. The rock will remain there till the weather improves and I find the state-of-the-art bonnet catches destined but not fitted to my rally car nigh on fifty years ago. Then it will be a case of finding my pop-riveter – it must be around somewhere in one of my many boxes – time to fix the door proper.
No worries – the rally car bonnet catches were in good order last time I saw them – as is this Lotus Cortina from the same era —
Wish I could say the same about my teeth for I would give my eye tooth – or even all three I have left in my head for one of those beauties now.
Next to go was the plastic door from electric fence switch gear cabinet beside the porch! Being lighter it went higher – faster and further but by using the old wet finger trick I carried on downwind till I caught up with the flying plastic missile before it reached North Cuan Sound.
A couple of bits of duct tape and the remaining floor joist from the old henhouse that blew away – complete with hens – in a previous blow has her wedged in place until a more permanent repair can be affected.
They say trouble comes in threes – and it did. Three slates blew off the roof – one of ’em narrowly missing our shiny Yeti. That’s probably just the start and we had better do something about them soon if we don’t want to finish up with an abundance of fresh air – like the folks who lived next to our heating oil tank.
No worries – we are warm – dry n well fed here tonight at Bardrishaig – full of Boxing Day curried xmas chook and as snug as two bugs in the proverbial rug.
Let Conor huff n puff n blow himself out tonight – we will bury him in the morning.