La Palma - Day Four – Storm? What Storm?

Still raining. Still absolutely lashing it down like someone opened the Atlantic sky and forgot to close it.

We made a second (doomed) attempt to reach Roque de los Muchachos today — determined to see the island from its highest peak before we left. But any hope was quickly dashed. The roads were a mess. Not just puddles and potholes, but full-on rockfalls scattered across the tarmac like nature was playing Jenga with the mountainside. After swerving around one too many boulder-sized “souvenirs,” I called it. Not worth wrecking the Fiat, or ourselves.

Plan B? Embrace the chaos.

So we spent the afternoon hopping between deserted beaches, watching the rough Atlantic ocean crash and rage. It was mesmerising, almost theatrical — the kind of waves you’d normally watch from a documentary voiceover, not from a black-sand shoreline in a rain-soaked t-shirt.

At one point, huddled under an abandoned BBQ hut on a rocky beach with the rain hammering down, we cobbled together lunch: slices of wet rye bread, a tin of something mysterious, and this absolute gem we’d found earlier — Sendi, a mustard-dill sauce (German, I think?) that tastes like someone spiked honey mustard with fresh dill and made it magic. Weirdly perfect on rye. The bread was a bit soggy from the weather, but we were too hungry to care. Possibly one of the best accidental meals I’ve ever had — a soggy, mustardy, storm-lashed triumph.

Somewhere between beaches, we learned the culprit had a name: Storm Hermine. It had officially hit La Palma — a full-blown tropical storm. Locals were being advised to stay indoors. Government announcements. Weather alerts. Civil protection warnings.

And us? Blissfully sauntering around the island like characters in a Wes Anderson film — entirely unaware, thanks to our noble “no-scroll” policy and the complete absence of Wi-Fi at The Treehouse. Digital detox goals achieved, apparently. Though, in hindsight, a little push notification might’ve been handy.

By the time we made it back to the house (via the now river-like volcanic track), it felt like we were starring in a mildly chaotic survival documentary. Rain battered the roof, trees groaned in the wind, and the living room had developed its own charming little waterfall — straight through the ceiling. The bedroom wasn’t faring much better, with water dribbling its way down the walls like a bad art installation. We moved the bed just in time to avoid a full soaking. Getaway cabin in the woods? More like punk-rock ark.

Catching the leaks

Then came the kicker: flights in and out of La Palma? Cancelled.

Oh. Shit.

We're now stranded on a storm-lashed island, huddled in a damp cabin halfway up a volcano, listening to garage punk and hoping the ceiling holds. And honestly? There's something kind of brilliant about it. Uncomfortable, yes. Slightly terrifying, also yes. But unforgettable? Absolutely.

And somewhere — probably buried in a soggy backpack — is Nick Kent’s The Dark Stuff, now less inflight entertainment and more disaster-holiday bedtime reading.

Let’s see what Monday brings. Preferably a dry towel and a clear flight path.