Fallen Gods

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Nobody could remember weather like it in June. "A side-effect of El Nino," the lovely weather woman on BBC Breakfast had described the phenomenon, on the third morning of the blizzards that swept the Scottish mountains, a savagely unprecedented sting in the tail of a winter which, after seeming for a while to be endless, had been interrupted by the wettest spring on record.

The hardy Highlanders had moaned their way through the dark months, counting at the same time the money as it flowed into the ski resorts, but even they found the summer snows too much to bear. On the second day, there was a report of a suicide on a remote farm, whose tenant had lost more than half of his sheep.

And then, on the fourth day, it was over, as dramatically as it had begun. The clouds disappeared, the temperatures rose overnight by as much as eighteen Celsius, and the snows melted in the course of half a day.

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