Yesterday there was a brief respite between Storm Éowyn on Friday and today’s pretty standard wind and rain. Thankfully we got through Éowyn fairly unscathed, losing only a couple of tiles from the “rooflet” over our downstairs bay window. Mind you, that was probably because Storm Darragh took off a swathe of our roof’s tiles before Christmas, which meant we had our roof already mended and reinforced. Our immediate neighbours lost a fair few tiles.

Anyway, a day confined to quarters meant I was desperate to get out yesterday morning’s bright sunshine and crisp frost. On the way to the river, there were already several trees down, and the air was full of the smell of sap and the dust of cut wood. At the main junction just before the river, the clean-up was in full swing – the racket of chain-saws sliced through the traffic noise, and wood was piled at the side of the road.

The black-headed gulls were reassuringly arrayed as usual on the railings at the pontoon just past Governor’s Bridge. When I got to Lagan Valley Park itself, I got off the towpath fairly quickly and headed for the woods. It was great to see the bright yellow breasts of blue tits in the sun; watch the coal tits needling away at the buds on the trees; and hear the assertive call of a great tit nearby. Groups of magpies swooped about; and I got a great view of a jay. At upper Lagan Meadows, however, I was a bit taken aback not only at the number of mature oak tree that had fallen, but the stuff that was showing in the torn earth: bottles and strange discs of metal that had me wondering if they were hubcaps; or unlikely leftovers from the second world war.

As I walked around the meadow itself, I was treated to a posse of long-tailed tits dancing through the trees. Like the coal tits, these were busily interrogating any buds for whatever morsel they might winkle out. It was brilliant to see them. Such tiny birds, the epitome of cuteness. How they survived Friday’s hurricane is a mystery. Where did they hunker down? Being so loyal to their family group, I wonder did they all snuggle together in some crevice somewhere? And there they were, blithely flitting through the twigs as if nothing untoward had happened. I watched them for ages.

On the other side of the meadow, I was struck by the view I now had of the Belfast Hills, thanks to those fallen trees.

As I approached Moreland’s Meadow, I found myself getting tense. I realised, I was worried about the stand of very mature oaks and the single massive chestnut just beyond the stile. Thankfully most were still standing. But a number of the oaks at the edge or further out in field had either fallen, or were badly injured, their torn limbs and exposed heartwood searingly visible from a distance. All I could do was walk among them, touch their bark and whisper “sorry”. It felt like the loss of old friends. Another woman walking her dog stopped to commiserate with me. “I knew you were upset by your face,” she said to me, “it’s really sad.”

It was a strange feeling to be mourning the trees. Recently, someone I know through blogging, Debra, who lives in California, wrote movingly about the devastation of the fires so close to where she lives. She has also written about its aftermath, the overwhelm and the grief. I know that the loss of ‘my’ trees, while a real loss, at some level doesn’t compare to the obliteration of entire communities that Debra, and many others have experienced. But the fires and storms and the floods are all connected.Nevertheless, perhaps the trees also offer hope. More will grow. Life is endlessly resourceful and there are always survivors, even of climate change.

But I didn’t know how much I loved these particular trees, these stands of them, till I saw how brutally hurt they were by this havoc. However, climate scientists have been predicting more extreme weather events for decades, so storms like this will accompany all of us into the future.

We will have to hunker down for more.