In Spate.

We caught a little bit of good weather this morning, but it didn't last; very soon it was pouring with rain just as it had all night. I woke to rumours that roads were flooded and the village was cut off from civilisation but the story had grown by the time it reached me. Workmen were out in the small hours clearing the blocked drains so that the water could disperse but they didn't do a very good job, a possible blip was the grass still growing through the grills.

As always, after rain, the river was high; it was what our family have always called a "raging torment," an expression whose origins are lost in the mists of time. It was flowing fast over the weir that supplied the water wheel which powered the gunpowder factory a hundred years ago.

About eighteen months ago, a severe storm broke the left hand end of the ramp supporting the wall, the rubble can be seen lying in the foreground and there is a distinct bulge; one of these days the structure will give way and a large wave will wreak havoc from here to Musselburgh.