Stephen O’Connell studied literature as an undergraduate many years ago but received his graduate training in applied linguistics and has worked in the language learning and language assessment fields for the last two decades. As a result, writing (albeit mostly of the Stephen O’Connell studied literature as an undergraduate many years ago but received his graduate training in applied linguistics and has worked in the language learning and language assessment fields for the last two decades. As a result, writing (albeit mostly of the academic sort) and language has been a constant for him, and after a recent move to Ireland (where his parents were born) from New York (where he was born), he has returned to writing creatively, both of the fiction and non-fiction sort.

Which Way the Wind Blows

By Stephen O’Connell

“The wind is terrific.”

-J. M. Synge, The Aran Islands

I.

Stenson knew that there would be rain. He had visited Ireland more than twenty times prior to his relocation to the island from New York City. So he knew well that there would be rain.

But somehow he overlooked the wind. Or at least, he didn’t have a sufficient grasp of the full extent of the wind. Its relentlessness and its ferocity. Its vindictiveness. Perhaps that was because his visits had all been during the summer. Or perhaps it was because he hadn’t done much cycling on those visits.

But sweet mother of God, after the move to Galway and after his decision to rely on a bike for as much of his commuting and errands as possible, he learned about the wind. He learned that the wind in the West can bruise you. It didn’t need particles of sand or bits of debris in its upsweep to do damage. And it could do a number on the soul as well.

As his first October in Ireland ticked over into November and he was in his second month of commuting twelve kilometers of a morning into Galway town, it became the main subject of his small talk.

“Holy fuck, the force of the wind this morning,” he would mutter as he gathered himself at his desk. Sometimes it took five, even ten minutes to regain his composure.

He occasionally found himself apologising for the amount of detail he gave about the wind, and the frequency with which he discussed it. But if he was being honest, he wasn’t sorry. He was engrossed by it. It was by far the most striking aspect of his move to Ireland.

His captivation increased during the journeys home, when the wind should’ve been in his favor. He was no meteorologist, but if you travel in one direction with the wind in your face, shouldn’t it be at your back when going in the opposite direction? But on many an afternoon, the wind was there again, baring its teeth and putting a finger to his chest. On more than one occasion he caught himself roaring full-throated into it: “Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me?” But the wind gave no verbal reply; it just kept pushing.

II.

Stenson knew about the deforestation of Ireland. He learned about it while still a kid in New York. That as part of the English colonization project, timber was systematically extracted from the island and no thought whatsoever was given to maintaining native woodlands as the hills and valleys were cleared for plantations and landlord estates.

But it still hit him like a two-by-four of insight when he was reminded of that part of Ireland’s environmental history one afternoon in Leitrim. He was sitting in his uncle’s kitchen and was giving out about the fierceness of the wind he was encountering as he cycled around Galway.

“The fecking wind sometimes makes me late for work! The differences in the commute can be ten or fifteen minutes from morning to morning.”

Stenson added that the winds in the American Midwest, where for years he had commuted as a cyclist in Wisconsin and Michigan, hadn’t been as troublesome. And that was a part of the world not known for gentle weather. Where you’re supposedly at the mercy of winds bullying down from the Arctic across the flatness of the Canadian plains.

When he finally paused, the uncle said, “Well, you don’t have many trees around you there in Galway, and the trees’ll do a job in breaking up the wind. Though I’ve never been, I imagine Wisconsin has a fair few more trees in it.”

Of course. Though the snow and ice on the roads in Wisconsin and Michigan made cycling a dodgy proposition from Thanksgiving till St. Patrick’s Day, he couldn’t recall an unabating, merciless, and soulless wind in his face. Probably because there were trees in people’s yards, trees lining the roads, trees filling parks—trees here, there, and everywhere. Big sturdy trees with lovely sprawling branches spreading their grey-brown barkiness outwards in admonition of the wind.

When Stenson was back home he went to the Internet for quantification of Ireland’s lack of forestry. He found sites telling him what any observant traveller already knew: in comparison to other countries in Europe, Ireland was well below average in terms of forest cover, at only 11%. The European average was around 33%. France was at 31% and Germany at 32%. Only Denmark and Holland joined Ireland at less than 20%.

Turning his searches to the U.S., Stenson learned that Michigan and Wisconsin were both around 50% tree cover. And here he had been on Ireland’s western edge, with scarcely an oak or a hazel to greet him, wondering whether the wind had some special animus towards him. If he could force the wind into conversation, it would probably tell him to take up his complaints with the stewards of the land, both past and present.

III.

Stenson knew about climate change long before he moved to Ireland. Going back to Al Gore’s 2000 presidential run in the United States, his view on the subject had been more in line with the thousands of trained scientists with extensive expertise than with what fossil fuel executives and their paid pundits and politicians claimed. The agenda of the latter was far more suspicious—and insanely more lucrative—than that of the former. But Stenson hadn’t thought about what climate change might do to the wind until he found himself cycling around Galway.

Despite the wind, he was cycling more and more. He had joined a club and was out most Sunday mornings for group spins. It was mighty exercise and a wonderful way to note the February launching of daffodils and the appearances of lambs in the fields. Wind or no wind, the hawthorns going into bloom were a joy to take in, as was the smell of earth rising from the ditches and the curl of birdsong through country lanes.

During the long evenings of summer, Stenson began doing a couple of spins from his home in Claregalway. One was east to Athenry. Another was north to Tuam. As he did the routes regularly, he became somewhat attuned to the wind patterns. Which directions the wind usually came from, and the rare days when it was on the gentler side.

Most days when heading to Athenry the wind was at his back and he only had to battle it coming home. But one day it was in his face on his way out. He consoled himself knowing it would be in his favor on the return. But it wasn’t. Right turns and left turns be damned, Stenson couldn’t escape the headwinds. He was in a fishbowl of wind.

The following Sunday when he mentioned the circle of wind to other cyclists, one guy said he’d noticed it as well. And that the phenomenon was occurring more frequently than in the past. It made Stenson wonder how the wind worked. He knew feck all about it. How predictable was it? And was it changing?

What he’d read previously about climate change was mostly about precipitation and sea levels. He knew that the American Midwest and Northeast, places where he had lived, were going to get wetter and more humid. And that New York City was fucked when it came to sea level. The flooding of the subways, a shock with Hurricane Sandy in 2012, had become an annual thing. Bolts of rain would crash down and videos of besieged subway platforms gushing with water would spread across social media. But what about the wind?

Stenson watched some science videos—created for school kids—to try to understand what causes the wind. He gleaned that while the wind isn’t easy to predict, there are global wind patterns. Which makes sense. The brave souls who went out to sea hundreds of years ago must’ve known that. And sure, didn’t Stenson’s own father mock him during his first week in Galway when he mentioned putting up a garden tunnel on the property. After Stenson explained where he would lay it out, his father said in response, “For feck’s sake, with the entrance facing north? Do you not know anything about the wind?”

Apparently he didn’t. Returning to the videos, Stenson learned that a good bit of the predictability of the wind stemmed from the equator getting direct sunlight while the north and south poles receive indirect sunlight. This resulted in the air around the equator being warmer. Warm air rises—Stenson could recall that much from his own distant school days. And when the warm air rises to a certain point it starts to cool, and as it cools, it curls to the north—or south—ahead of new warm air rising behind it. Once it cools sufficiently—and loses any moisture it picked up—it falls back down. This continual movement of air apparently is the source of wind.

Interesting, Stenson thought. Though he had a feeling he hadn’t fully grasped it. Perceiving the wind as a vengeful god spitting out wild and agitated circles of breath was more his inclination. After he clicked on another video about how the spinning of the Earth on its axis contributes to wind movement, he realized he was at the limit of his understanding.

But it was clear that air temperature is a key part of the wind creation process. So, it would follow that if the air is warmer everywhere, it’s going to affect the wind. He didn’t need a Ph.D. in environmental science to get that. But he wondered what the Ph.D.s were hypothesising about the impact of warmer air on wind patterns.

Stenson searched “impact of climate change on wind in Ireland” and saw that the scientists were predicting more winter storms with stronger winds while at the same time less wind overall, particularly in the summer. So the wind was sashaying out to the extremes. Catastrophic bursts in winter and periods of deep lull throughout the year. That would be some change for the west of Ireland.

Stenson continued thinking about it the following weekend when he cycled to Kinvara with the wind in his face. It was a clear but raw day. He was wearing a head band to keep his ears warm, but his scalp was so chilled it pained him.

“My fecking skull hurts,” he heard himself muttering.

“Sure, you’d miss me if I were gone,” the wind hissed in response as it raced into and around the helmet.

IV.

Stenson’s plan one Sunday in April was to do a solo cycle around Lough Corrib. A journey of 120 kilometers, it was at the boundary of his abilities, so he was methodical in his preparation. He was back and forth from the house to the garage with the water bottle, granola bars, replacement tubes, and so on.

On his way in from one trip he paused in the front hall. He glanced up at the “Irish blessing” hanging over the shelfing where he kept the hats, gloves, umbrellas and other things whose use depended on the weather.

The second line, “May the wind always be at your back”, caught his eye in a way that it never had when he was living in the States. He smiled. What a lovely wish to bestow on someone in the West of Ireland. A pipe dream across the centuries.

Stenson had looked at the forecast the evening before. It seemed normal enough—average wind speeds around 25kph, with gusts in the 40s. Though they would go up as the day went on. There was also a fair chance of showers till noon, but it wouldn’t be too cold. It was 7 degrees Celsius and predicted to go up to 10 or 11.

He set out just shy of 7:30 a.m. and the wind was at his back as he went north. He stopped briefly in Headford, 22 kilometers from home, and ate a granola bar. He was pleased with his progress and even more pleased when he got to Cong for his second granola bar and saw that he was keeping the pace.

With the wind at his back he was able to observe the landscape. When you’re into the wind, all you can focus on is each propulsion forward. A battle of wills. With your snout locked into Zephyrus’s armpit by one of his sinewy limbs, you’re thinking more of getting away from his rage than how the landscape is absorbing his blows.

But for the moment Stenson was free of Zephyrus, the god of the west wind. And Boreas, his brother from the north, for that matter. The seafaring Greeks certainly knew better than most that the four winds had four different personalities and deserved their own names.

In the ease of his cycling Stenson could see the marks of Storm Éowyn everywhere. It had bashed into Ireland at the end of January, setting records with winds at more than 180 kilometers per hour. Almost every field contained a tree or two, or three, it had toppled as it swept furiously across the island. Several months on, the carcasses lay rotting on their sides. Thick walls of soil still caked around the roots that hovered above the gapped earth that they had been flung out of.

The stone walls had taken a beating as well. They grinned their busted-up grins at Stenson as he glided past. A stone wall undone by a falling tree is one thing and a stone wall getting shifted by the wind alone is something else. But that’s what Éowyn had done all across the West.

As Stenson travelled across the top of Lough Corrib, a dirty drizzle began to fall, but he still felt good. When Keane’s shop in Maum appeared, he was about halfway and happy to stop for a coffee.

It wasn’t yet 10:30 and some locals were in the shop and a group of men had clumped by the door. The weather was not being discussed; it was the day of the Connemarathon and they were moaning about coming interruptions to traffic in and out of Leenaun and down at Maam Cross.

Stenson had only realised the marathon was on when he left Cong and saw a sign, but it wouldn’t affect him. His route was straight down from Maum to Maam Cross, and though Maam Cross was where the marathon finished, he would be well ahead of any runners. But to be sure, he drank the coffee quickly and got on the road again.

He was grateful the drizzle had stopped. And he was amused to see the “Mile 23” marker for the marathoners. By Christ this next three miles will be far easier for me than for those poor souls, he thought. But as he got a couple of hundred meters beyond the sign, he became acutely aware of the wind.

Stenson knew he would be turning into the wind as he headed south. Notus, as the Greeks called the wind from the south, was on hand that morning and had given him a boost over the first forty-odd kilometers. But here in the valley, Notus was in a foul mood.

It was coming at him simultaneously from the front and the side. One pushing gust to the chest that didn’t let up for a solid five seconds sent a flicker of concern from Stenson’s torso up through his brain stem.

He was not a man with much experience navigating crosswinds. And while he’d been hit plenty by wind that made the bike bounce for a moment, these gusts weren’t breaking. When another hit him with a six- or seven-second duration he wondered if he ought to dismount. That would be a first. And seemed a bit ludicrous. But maybe it was necessary? Especially with only a foot of ground between the road and a steep drop to the left.

But he continued on. He was going uphill and moving slowly. The wind retreated for a moment, but only to gather itself, and it came back at him with authority. Like a bouncer who was twice his weight and five times as strong.

Stenson’s upper torso was pushed off the bike before he could even start to think about unclipping his cleat from the left pedal. The front wheel curled abruptly to the left and the ditch that was inches away snarled up at him. The bike crashed to the dirt and he hit the ground as the force broke both of his cleats free and he skittered down the slope of the ditch.

His left knee made sharp contact with a stone and then his left shoulder got the next one and then the helmet got a wallop as he rolled across his front to the left and then the helmet collided with another stone and he was at the bottom of the ditch on his back.

The water bottle stumbled to a stop beside him. He almost smiled at the sight of its familiar shape in the unexpected maw of the ditch.

But there was no air in him. The bike was above. He took a breath and he could see a bit of the handlebars poking over the edge of the ten-foot drop.

His back hurt. His shoulder hurt worse and his knee was screaming. He exhaled slowly. He had the helmet on and his skull seemed intact. He wondered if anything was broken. Looking at the sky, he didn’t think so. But he didn’t know. And he didn’t know if he could make it back up to the road.

Though as quiet as the road was, there would be drivers. And of course, the marathoners would be coming in a few hours. The bike was bloody obvious up there, prone and alone on the stripeen of ground between the tarmac and the lip of the ditch.

He’d give it a minute. He needed to regroup. He’d give it a minute, have a mouthful of his watered-down Lucozade, and then give it a go. See how much damage he’d done to the bones and body. There was a thin stream of water to his left, and he was grateful he wasn’t lying in it. The left arm and hand didn’t seem usable so he reached for the water bottle across his body with the right hand and was able to grab it.

He looked at the sky again. The wind racing across it. He could make out a sepulchral wave of air crossing itself forwards and backwards. It was tangible and taunting. Weaving under itself and back over again. It carried the voice of the voiceless and gave shape to the shapeless. It was ten thousand years old and a newborn.

He tried to take a gulp from the water bottle and most of the liquid flowed down his chin. He felt woozy and tired. He abruptly thought of J. M. Synge whinging about the wind on the Aran Islands. After arriving in Ireland Stenson had finally read Synge’s account of life on those islands. A coworker had thought it hilarious that Stenson had brought the book with him on a vacation to Seville and that he had been reading it in courtyards where the breeze kissed ripe oranges in the sun-stroked trees overhead.

Synge may have been whinging, but he wrote about the wind and weather of the Islands with verve. Stenson found himself underlining those bits and going back to them. And even though Synge had worried about the wind and the sea taking him to his death, he had gotten out alive. Through the wind and over the sea.

There was no sea in Maam Valley, not at the moment anyhow, and Stenson wasn’t yet sure he was getting out alive.

If he was alive, he would have to crawl out from under the wind. He didn’t have the strength for it yet though. He brought the water bottle back to his lips and looked up at Notus dancing above him. The wind was wearing a white gown with long blue tails. There wasn’t even any music but Notus was having a ball. The god’s face went from grey to red to purple to pink and from round to flat. From beautiful and young to old and gnarled and back again.

Stenson took another swallow from the water bottle. He coughed and his ribs ached. He didn’t know it could be so easy to dance without music. It should be more difficult, he thought. A bit of sun would help of course. Sun that whispered to oranges. Would the sun come out? Or would the rain return? Whatever else, the wind wasn’t going anywhere. It bellowed down from Notus’s puffed out cheeks to rave along the stones smeared with sheep shit that surrounded Stenson’s stretched out body. Stenson felt very tired. He’d give himself another minute before trying to climb back up to the road. In another minute or two, maybe he’d feel less tired.

Stephen O’Connell, December 2025