Galway and the west coast of Ireland bore the brunt of the storm's fury last weekend, lashed by winds that howled like banshees, tearing through the land with a reckless, unrelenting force. The skies darkened, the rain fell in torrents, and the record-speed wind bent the world to its will. Trees, once proud sentinels of the roadside, succumbed, their roots torn from the earth, their limbs flung like discarded matchsticks. Roofs groaned, ridge tiles loosened and scattered, while fragile sheds crumpled like paper in a giant’s grasp.
Shards of shaattered glass flew across roadways and embedded themselves into whatever met its resistance. The pieces like bullets taking out everything in their way. Roots that never saw the light of day now lie exposed as a harsh reminder of the ferocity of what happened.
But beyond the wreckage lay deeper wounds, silent and insidious. The absence of power plunged homes into darkness, cutting lifelines to warmth, food, and communication. Broadband and phone networks, frail threads upon which modern life precariously balances, snapped under the storm’s weight. Water, the most fundamental of needs, faltered where supply systems lacked backup generators. For the ill and infirm, this was no mere inconvenience; it was a fight for survival in the cold, disconnected hush that followed the storm’s rage.
These past days have taught us much, revealing not just the power of nature but our own vulnerabilities. We have built a world tethered to technology, trusting invisible signals and delicate wires to hold us together. But when the wind rises, when the trees fall, we are reminded that we have built our lives on shifting sand. Our networks, our infrastructure, our very sense of security—at the mercy of swinging roadside trees.
There is a lesson in the aftermath, written in the wreckage, whispered through the broken branches and the silenced phone lines. We must prepare, not just react. We must ensure that no town or village is left adrift when the next storm comes. Community and sports hubs, the beating hearts of our towns, must be fortified, funded, and designed to serve as emergency shelters when crisis strikes. They should be more than places of play; they should be sanctuaries in the storm, warm beacons when the darkness falls.
Infrastructure must evolve beyond convenience and toward resilience. The masts that rise over our communities, standing tall as if to promise connection and communication, must be strengthened to deliver that promise when it is needed most. If they are to be welcomed into our landscapes, let them serve us fully, built to endure, to sustain, to protect and not just be creators of profit for their owners.
And then there are the trees—silent, watchful, beautiful, and dangerous. Like dogs, they are our responsibility when they leave our boundaries, when their outstretched limbs threaten the roads and the power lines that sustain us. We must be mindful stewards, tending to them not just for their beauty, but for the safety of all who pass beneath them. The wind does not discriminate; it takes what it can grasp. Let us not give it more than it must claim.
Ireland was attacked by the wind, and we have seen our weaknesses laid bare. But storms, for all their destruction, carry within them a harsh wisdom. They teach us what must be done. Let us not forget these lessons in the calm that follows. Let us strengthen what must be strengthened, protect what must be protected, and prepare, always, for the winds that will come again.
Take care. Remember those who have no power or heat this week and do what you can to help each other.
