After our 'Hebridean Adventure' the routine of 'normal' life hits home leaving us with mixed feelings. We settle back into daily routines: walking to the shops, hanging out the washing, following the news, watching Phil, a local pheasant, strutting around in the garden and Rob, our friendly robin eating at our feeder, watching TV (not something we missed at all). All these things being part of the experience of life in a house as opposed to a campervan. The rain continues, off and on, and the garden soaks it up. Then the wind changes direction and it suddenly feels cooler, like autumn, which of course it is. The Equinox comes and goes and we light the stove to keep ourselves warm.
Our bikes seem to have survived everything the Hebrides threw at them and at the first opportunity we take them for a spin along the Crinan Canal, one of our favourite rides due to the absence of anything remotely like a hill. But then we are sidetracked and turn off along the road to Tayvallich, a seven mile detour to the coast. Here we do encounter some ups and downs but a little electric power easily copes with this and eventually we get to sit on a bench and admire the view across the Sound of Jura whilst eating our sandwiches. Riding back the way we came, this time with the wind at our backs, brings us to the top of our favourite hill and a long descent on a stretch of smooth, recently laid tarmac. We descend at terrific speed with the wind in our hair. Nothing overtakes us here but we are soon back beside the Crinan Canal riding at normal speed again. We end the round trip, riding around thirty miles in total, and recognise that this might be our last ride for a while with autumn now upon us.
Then a few days later the rain really starts.
The back garden is awash, each of the pathways we have created to allow us to walk through our dense, untamed vegetation now holds standing water, a testament to the correctness of our garden strategy. The long grass and heather that grows across most of the garden simply absorbs the rain, capturing it until it can soak away slowly in its own time. The pathways across the garden hold the water because the soil is compressed and the water cannot soak in so well.
One storm blows away eastwards giving us a lull and a dry spell before the next one is due.
And this is a big one called 'Amy'. Warnings are published days in advance - winds gusting over one hundred miles an hour and heavy rainfall coming onto already drenched ground.
The day starts quietly, dry with not a breath of wind. This lasts until around ten in the morning when a light rain begins to fall. By midday the wind has arrived, steadily building and throwing the rain against our windows. It arrives from a south-easterly direction but the forecasters promise that this will spin around rapidly, eventually ending up as a northwesterly blast. Our house sits high above the village giving us a spectacular view but at the same time exposing us to whatever the weather chooses to throw at us. We sit and watch, trying not to be too alarmed at the noise of the rain hammering down. Going out is not recommended and we see social media posts with pictures of flooding locally. The rain is already having an impact but this is only the start. We can expect much more wind and this means trees getting blown over, blocking some of our roads. Our local ferry has come back into the harbour, services cancelled for the day, and local businesses are shutting their doors too, trying to discourage people from going out.
We have a log store full of bits of rhododendron wood, mostly hacked from the bushes growing just beyond our garden fence, all branches which were cut up and stored over six months ago so it is reasonably dry. Our multi fuel stove makes short work of this, keeping us warm at the same time, which is a bonus, particularly when the electric power goes off. Suddenly we are plunged into a world where nothing works, no mobile signal, no lights, no cooker or kettle to make a cup of tea. Out come the candles and our portable camping gas stove. Power comes back on briefly then some time after midnight we lose it again and it remains off for most of the next day. In the morning we realise that we don't know the time (electric clock) and being unable to communicate we cannot know how far the power cut extends. We later discover that this power cut only affected our village although there were plenty of others around Scotland in a similar position.
As the day progresses the squalls come on suddenly; a blast of wind and rain hammering noisily against our windows, then it passes over to let the sun pop out briefly. The deer wandering about in our road seemed largely unconcerned and was probably happy to have the road to himself for once. Just before three in the afternoon we are switched back on again. Somewhere, someone has been working hard to fix whatever was broken in the storm, quite a challenge as the gusts have not abated at all.
As it turns out the timing of the electric power returning was perfect as we needed some light for our band's evening performance in the harbour marquee, a remarkable structure that manages to survive anything the weather can throw at it.
We were booked to play some tunes to entertain the local beach cleaners, a regular event here where groups of volunteers go out and and pick up litter from one or other of our local beaches. This being the last such event of the season the cleaners were rewarded with some free food and entertainment. We even managed to get them dancing a couple of times, not bad considering they had just finished their fish suppers.
So this is normal life. As ever the weather dictates so much of what we do at home on a day to day basis just as much as when we are away on holiday.
