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are tree trunks lying end to end, as though felled by a Paul Bunyan.
My worst encounter with the wind at the farm was during a winter blizzard. I had walked down the driveway to shut off the water and electricity, because we were going to be away for a few days. The 12 inches of snow came to the tops of my Wellington knee boots, and I could hardly make out where the path was.
I stood in the house and looked down at the blowing snow. It was like standing on the bridge of a ship, with the snow-covered ridges making frozen waves, and the wind blowing clouds of spray from the crests: Each blast shook the farmhouse with a thumping, thundering sound. It felt as though a giant had a hand on each corner of the house, and was shaking it.
I had only felt this shuddering once before, in a tavern on the Yorkshire moors, where some sheep farmers were playing dominoes by the fireplace. They said the walls were “wuthering,” and carried on with their game as if it were nothing
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