Recently a Scottish friend emailed me his description of a storm on ‘Bervie beach.
In the seventies, for a few years, my family and I lived in ‘Bervie, (Inverbervie), a small village on the north-east coast of Scotland, south of Stonehaven, smack up against the North Sea.
My friend’s excellent description took me back in time.
Thanks, Largo Bob, for the memories, as another Bob, Bob Hope. used to sing.
What a great description Largo Bob had written of the awesome power a storm can display at ‘Bervie beach. He surely had to have been there during a storm to have made those very descriptive observations.
King David II back in 1342, would have understood first-hand that power. He and his Queen were shipwrecked returning from exile in France. They were saved from a raging storm by the villagers of Inverbervie. Craig David, (named for the King) the prominent hill above the shore, serves as our reminder. King David deemed Inverbervie a Royal Burgh in 1362 as a token of his thanks. That is quite an honor even in these days. I feel privileged to have lived there, if only for a brief time.
I thought it Interesting that my friend Bob should bring up ’Bervie beach and storms. I also write about them in Some Called It Coincidence.
That Royal Burgh where we made our home in the early seventies was some 20 miles or so from the RAF (Royal Air Force) Base at Edzell to which I as a US Navy sailor was attached.
I remember being relieved from a mid-watch (think night shift), getting in my car, and heading home. I passed through the gates at the entrance, turned left toward North Water Bridge and then left again on the A90 which was not then the dual carriageway it is today.
Going left on the old A90, I drove through the wee, still sleeping, village of Laurencekirk and in a short distance turned right on a narrower B967 that would wind through green fields and pastures toward Inverbervie and the warm comforts of home.
Did I mentioned a storm had blown in during the night?
The B967 is a great little path for someone with an imagination. I call it a path because it is very narrow, and it often curves suddenly as it goes over even narrower stone bridges that allow undisturbed passage of the the wee burns beneath, bubbling beneath, who hurry their dark peaty waters the short distance to the nearby North Sea. Ancient, waist high stone walls separate the road from similarly bordered paths and fields. The varying shades of green interrupted only by the multiple shades of grey of the stone walls, the black of the pavement on the path, and an occasional farm steading.
The Path travels past places called Arbuthnott and Mains of Allerdice before turning onto the A92 only a short distance from Inverbervie and home. Arbuthnott always excited my imagination because of its large stone and iron gate opening to a path leading up to what is surely a stately home hidden somewhere in the distance. There is also Arbuthnott Church, but I have digressed.
Remember, I am on my way home after a night shift at the base. A night spent dealing with the secret doings in our contentious world. It is good to be in the peace and quite of my car enjoying the exquisite scenery around me as I travel home.
I always travel with my imagination. I question the value of an imagination if you do not use it occasionally.
As I had travelled down the path that is the B967, I became aware of a gradually increasing dull roaring sound, faint at first, but growing louder as I traveled toward home. “What could that be,” I asked myself? And myself, had no answer.
As I crested the last hill on the path taking me home, I could look down and see the normally placid, peaceful wee village of Inverbervie, with its small bay and rock covered beaches. I could see they were in turmoil.
The storm I mentioned earlier had stirred up the North Sea and its frothy, storm-tossed waves were pounding with brute force the rocks on the beach, the combined forces of the wind and waves alternately blasting them apart and then sucking them back together again. This rattling sound became the roar I had heard a few miles inland as I was drove home.
I made it to our home not all that far from the now roaring rock beach and was thankful for its warmth and protection. Thankful I was not at sea in the storm or on the beach with no protection from the roaring wind, the waves, and the slashing wind driven rain.
As I thought about this, it occurred to me that there is also power in the quiet and calm stillness of the rock beach in normal times. The continuous, gentle waves nudge the rocks apart with a soft clicking sound and then draw them back together as they fall back into the sea. This motion is repeated over and over…and over again and might even seem monotonous were it not so peaceful. It also occurred to me that this soothing, peaceful, relaxing sound and also the sight of the waves gently rolling toward the shore had been occurring since creation.
There are few things better for you in this crazy world in which we live than peaceful, soothing and relaxing. There are those in our day who pay money for such a thing. At ‘Bervie beach it is free.
Power in the storm, power in the quiet. Power from our creator.