Tag Archives: Hurricane

Hurricane Low Q: A Personal Recollection

15 Jan

It is astounding to think that Hurricane Low Q, which devastated Central Scotland, occurred 50 years ago.  Back then, to my child’s mind, a period 50 years earlier (a time when the Great War was still being fought, which with hindsight my grandparents remembered) was, like the Battle of Trafalgar, ancient history to me.   Now, of course, 50 years ago is within my living memory.

Some memories are indelibly graven and one such is that hurricane of the night of 15th– 16th January, 1968.

I remember that the 15th, a Sunday, was unusually mild and very calm without any hint of a breeze, and that we were able to play out in my Grandparents’ garden at Ardoch without coats.   But there was otherwise nothing particularly noteworthy about the day.  I’m sure that my sailor Grandfather would have noted the fall in both temperature and barometric pressure and expected stormy weather, though not even he expected the hurricane which rampaged across our region during the night.

My brother and I slept in a room in the attic of our 300 year old Mill Cottage and we were awoken by the howling of the wind, which lifted and dropped the skylights every few minutes with a loud crash.  In a short time, the howl changed to a shriek and the lights went out.  The sound of hurricane force winds is not something one forgets – and so I knew exactly what to expect when it heard it again almost 20 years later in Worthing during another great storm that was supposed to pass Britain by.

Not unnaturally, we were both crying with fear of the noise and the dark.  My father came up and, surprisingly given the scale of the damage inflicted on so many buildings, did not move us downstairs but gave us a torch, told us to be quiet and to go back to sleep.  We decided to share my bed, probably because I was the elder, but we didn’t sleep again until after the wind had dropped to gale force.

In the morning, we awoke to see the devastation that winds of over 100mph (160kph) had wrought during the night.  There were fallen trees everywhere.  Houses had lost tiles and chimneys – in some cases whole roofs.  But, amazingly, our cottage sustained next to no damage at all – just a few tiles.

My father’s egg business was not so lucky.  He had about 100 hens in Nissan huts in a field near my grandparents’ house.  Bits of twisted metal were found several miles away and dead chickens all over three counties.

I rather think that my mother tried to take us to school, though that may be a false memory.  It maybe she had merely been told that the road from Cardross to Helensburgh was blocked by fallen trees just past Geilston.  Either way there was no school for us that day.  So we spent a happy time playing, childishly oblivious to the tragic loss of homes, possessions and lives that had taken place just a few miles away.

I don’t remember how long we were without electricity, or for how long the petrol station was closed, such things being less important to children who are content providing they are warm, fed and allowed to play, but I suspect it was short in duration or it would have left a greater impression.

A final memory: in my youthful ignorance, I thought the hurricane was –  like the biblical flood – universal.  Accordingly, I remember asking my American relatives in Vermont, where I was spending the summer of ’68 on my own with my Aunt, how the hurricane had been there.  I was very surprised that they didn’t know what I was talking about, while they were bemused by my question as, of course, there had been no hurricane there, it having originated off Bermuda and moved eastward across the Atlantic.