The Scooby house and the storm
This is a true story. I was fifteen at the time, a long, long time ago. The year was 1976. At the time, the family had moved down to North Wales to manage a hotel. A hotel that sat on the very edge of the coast. Beyond this hotel was a large outcrop of rock that stretched out into the sea, and on this outcrop of rock sat the Scooby House. It was a house of exceptional atmospheric opulence. Built from the kind of stone one would expect to find incorporated into a dry-stone wall. No bricks and mortar, well, mortar, certainly - but no bricks. Just slabs of raw stone that lent a mysterious aura to its overall appearance. It was a large house that stood in its own grounds, which at high tide was joined to the mainland by a raised causeway which doubled as a drive. In later years, long after my departure from that place, I would come to think of this house as the ‘Marston House’ of ‘Salem’s Lot’ fame, but for the purposes of this tale I will refer to it as the ‘Scooby House’ with all the associated association’s such a title contains.
The house was steeped in melancholic, pathos. It was owned by an Irish judge, who shall remain nameless, mostly due to the fact that I never actually learned his name. However, his tragedy was well known. He had lost both sons at sea, many years previously. One died in an attempt to save the other, and on the anniversary of this terrible event, he played the bagpipes as a lament. This he would do annually with no regard for sun, hail, rain or snow, as a fitting tribute to the dearly departed. The year in question brought with it the most violent thunderstorm I have ever encountered. The storm raged from approximately seven o’clock and continued long into the night. Folk lightning descended from the illuminated heavens with such ferocity that (in what must have been an optical illusion) it appeared to strike the sea and bounce back off it. I’ve never witnessed that awesome sight again (having said that, I’ve never lived by the sea again, but that is bye the bye).
A family, who were staying at the hotel, were beachcombing at this time under clear blue sky; when suddenly it began to darken. In an instant, day turned to night, and the haunting strains of the bagpipes began to drift over the bay. These innocent holidaymakers were somewhat disconcerted by the turn of events, and when the heavens opened with the loudest clap of thunder imaginable – they lost their nerve and made all speed back to the hotel; saturated within seconds by a torrential downpour. Then lightning struck! Not in the sky, but at ground level. On and on they ran, impeded by clothes, that though once fashionable, now hampered their desperate progress towards shelter.
We watched all this, open-mouthed, from the TV room (it was 1976, computers were not household commodities then). As they reached the hotel, it was struck by a jagged bolt of lightning that demolished one of the chimneys that lined the roof. No sooner had the family reached sanctuary than the debris of the chimney crashed to the ground where they had been standing. I clearly recall my Dad saying these people were literally white in the face. It certainly made for a memorable holiday. But the storm wasn’t done yet. The lightning knocked out the entire electrical system of the hotel. One second, we were watching the storm through the window, surrounded by light and the blare of the TV, the next we were plunged into total, absolute darkness, with only the crack of thunder interspersed with the wail of the bagpipes audible. It was eerie in the extreme. We kid’s thought it was great, however, and proceeded to run around the corridors marveling at their curtain of gloom. The judge played throughout the night; such was his dedication to the memory of his loved ones. It was truly inspirational.
Eventually, power was restored and the storm burned itself out. But what a night. I’ll never forget it.
The house was steeped in melancholic, pathos. It was owned by an Irish judge, who shall remain nameless, mostly due to the fact that I never actually learned his name. However, his tragedy was well known. He had lost both sons at sea, many years previously. One died in an attempt to save the other, and on the anniversary of this terrible event, he played the bagpipes as a lament. This he would do annually with no regard for sun, hail, rain or snow, as a fitting tribute to the dearly departed. The year in question brought with it the most violent thunderstorm I have ever encountered. The storm raged from approximately seven o’clock and continued long into the night. Folk lightning descended from the illuminated heavens with such ferocity that (in what must have been an optical illusion) it appeared to strike the sea and bounce back off it. I’ve never witnessed that awesome sight again (having said that, I’ve never lived by the sea again, but that is bye the bye).
A family, who were staying at the hotel, were beachcombing at this time under clear blue sky; when suddenly it began to darken. In an instant, day turned to night, and the haunting strains of the bagpipes began to drift over the bay. These innocent holidaymakers were somewhat disconcerted by the turn of events, and when the heavens opened with the loudest clap of thunder imaginable – they lost their nerve and made all speed back to the hotel; saturated within seconds by a torrential downpour. Then lightning struck! Not in the sky, but at ground level. On and on they ran, impeded by clothes, that though once fashionable, now hampered their desperate progress towards shelter.
We watched all this, open-mouthed, from the TV room (it was 1976, computers were not household commodities then). As they reached the hotel, it was struck by a jagged bolt of lightning that demolished one of the chimneys that lined the roof. No sooner had the family reached sanctuary than the debris of the chimney crashed to the ground where they had been standing. I clearly recall my Dad saying these people were literally white in the face. It certainly made for a memorable holiday. But the storm wasn’t done yet. The lightning knocked out the entire electrical system of the hotel. One second, we were watching the storm through the window, surrounded by light and the blare of the TV, the next we were plunged into total, absolute darkness, with only the crack of thunder interspersed with the wail of the bagpipes audible. It was eerie in the extreme. We kid’s thought it was great, however, and proceeded to run around the corridors marveling at their curtain of gloom. The judge played throughout the night; such was his dedication to the memory of his loved ones. It was truly inspirational.
Eventually, power was restored and the storm burned itself out. But what a night. I’ll never forget it.
61-69, M
