Deluge

‘Water, water everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink,
Water, water everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink.’
— The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Coleridge

There are new streams on either side of the road from Fionnphort to Knockvologan. They were not there yesterday and have sprung into life in mere hours. The tarred surface seems now more causeway than road. Ponds sit afresh on the fields by the sea. Even the sandy soil cannot drain away this much water. The grey geese are enjoying this new wonderland, sitting proudly afloat as if to confirm their decision to forgo their migration, full of risk and energy.

Since the early morning there has been driving drizzle from the east that has saturated Mull and Erraid. The sky is a single sheet of grey that squeezes the tiny fleas of moisture, sending them jumping and skittering amongst each other until they finally settle on the ground — in the fleeces of sheep, on the flight feathers of angry storks, on the roofs of the scattered dwellings that ring the bay, and on the hoods and trousers of those who must be out. From all these places and more they gather strength and force, joining with countless others to charge down the hillsides, finding crevices from previous storms and forging new channels and thoroughfares — the quicker to make it to sea level. Pipes that run under the roads are nearly at capacity.

It hasn’t felt like a downpour of any great magnitude, but the sheer thickness and persistence of the squally, misty rain has penetrated deep into the ground and worked its way up through the peaty marshes, unable to reach the sea quickly enough. The thick gravel on the surface leading up to Fidden Farm has been parted in several neat channels and now runs clear into the middle of the road. The hard standing where our wheelie bins sit is submerged, and the hut that serves as our post box is perilously close to being overrun.

We’ve walked up to where the car is parked by Glen and Rachel’s place and are soaked through — or rather, I am. My standard-issue Cotswold outdoor attire is no match for this weather. The brook where the watercress grows is surging so much that much of it has been dislodged. As we walk up the field before the single-track road, four sheep are stood in front of a rocky outcrop looking dejected — like an unsigned goth band on a photoshoot for their first single. I change from my wellies into my hiking boots to drive and, while my trousers cling damply to my legs, I’m happy to be inside.

I am taking the car for its MOT. There is a worrying clanking coming from underneath, and the salty spray from the ocean is playing havoc with the metal. I drive an hour to Craignure and leave it with a young mechanic who appears to be an elective mute. By way of nods and raised eyebrows, I trust that the message about letting me know how much it’s going to cost before doing anything has landed.

In the sun, Craignure is not the kind of place that holds much attraction for those looking to linger and relax. In driving rain, there is instead an urgency to leave — to return to where I started an hour and a half ago.

It is an unexpected pleasure to sit in a coach for the return journey. I can enjoy the remarkable scenery without fear of driving off the single-track road. Shortly after leaving the village we enter the valley that stretches for twenty miles. I am free now to gaze at the cascades that run off the high hills in silver ribbons — the seemingly vertical plunge of stormwater from the peaks of Ben More that eventually comes to rest in the three lochs, or in Loch Beg. Further on, heading through the valley towards the Ross, and looking over to the right — with Lunga and Staffa a way off — the sheer cliffs of the Berg are so steep that the water flows straight into thin air for a while before being blown back onto the rock face.

All the while the road is filling up, and I’m glad that I’m on the coach, with its big wheels and high chassis. What is less appealing is the prospect of having to hike from Fionnphort to Knockvologan. However, after stopping off at the ferry café for a leisurely lunch of a toasted cheese and ham sandwich, a slab of chocolate tiffin and a latte, I feel I’m ready for anything.

Back home, I slew off my clothes and get comfy dry, confident that the trials of this wettest of days hold no other watery surprises. Opening the shutters that I’d forgotten about earlier in my haste to get going I do a double take. Instead of the patio that leads onto the lawn the ducks are enjoying a their new pond.