Scottish weather is like a muscular, moody, beautiful poet. He speaks his poems aloud; his face, his voice, and his words are too exquisite to ignore. He doesn’t use iambic pentameter or regular rhyme but mocks meter and any sense of predictability. Until, with a masterful volta, he ends abruptly, and the listener becomes nothing more than a willing victim, stunned and satisfied.

(I wrote this last night when I was lying in bed, listening to the gale-force winds and rain, and remembering the impressions I had of the weather in Wuthering Heights. This description might be a little dramatic, but yeah, so was the weather last night, and it kind of cast that mood.)