Sunday, December 31, 2006

Canute or not!

Since the last of my family had left for their lonely journey back to the big smoke, I was feeling quite efficient as I manhandled the sixth load of washing into the tumble drier out in the utiliy/freezer room.

As I re-entered the kitchen some subliminal warning whispered quietly in my brain. What was that that gentle bubbling sound, a stream? A siren went off between my ears, I don't have a stream, a stream more over which appeared to be gaining in vigour even as I pondered. I reversed my tread and swung left in the direction of what was now a full throated roar.

The whole of the back garden and the field behind it, a mere 15 acres on a slight slope, had disappeared and had been replaced with a moving sheet of water reminiscent of the Mississippi in full flood.

Being restricted in its lower reaches by a small wall which borders the tiny courtyard it was rushing in over the step in close imitation of the Horseshoe Falls and surging towards the house at unbelievable speed. The water level rose even in the 30 seconds I took to assess the situation. The outflow towards the boilerhouse was definitely not keeping pace with the input. The urge to sing "Ole Man River' was not upper most in my mind.

It is amazing how little time it takes to locate the phone, ring the neighbours, who incidently are downstream, yell for help, grab a broom and rush back and try to divert the bulk of the flow away from the door into the house using sheets of plywood, metal garden chairs and abandoned flagstones.

The cavalry arrived in the shape of Guy clutching a spade who took one look and cantered across the garden and began to dig a trench and construct a "bund" to persuade the field ditch it could cope with more water if it really put its mind to it.

The water was within a gnats whisker of achieving entry into the house when Guy began to gain the upper hand and the flow into the garden slackened. Sweeping furiously I was relieved to see just how much water could be pushed with a broom away in the general direction of where under normal circumstances the drain would be.
The flower beds, lawn, courtyard, path, in fact everything, was under 5 inches of water,the Thyme plants were completely submerged, the camellia,up to its ankles in water looked shell shocked and a dogs drinking bowl, left over from the heatwave of the summer floated away in a corner.

The Mississippi, defeated in its initial attack, continued to surge on in a determined manner and Guy left to review his own situation.

Forty five minutes later, with the help of additional man power, the reduced tide was left to its own devices and I retired to the kitchen.
Later as I lay in bed, I listened to the pelting rain with some degree of trepidation. I have however built a temporary flood barrier with scaffolding planks which should direct any repeat surge away from the house.

Many mice had clearly been flooded out and sought refuge under my floor as the dogs spent a considerable time rushing round sniffing the skirting boards in a purposeful manner. However I don't be grudge them shelter and a dry place for the night.

Next morning I fully expected the garden to look like the Nile delta but no, it had a clean washed look about it. The flags were sparkling, the windfall apples under the tree swept away and a fresh molehill had appeared next to the oil tank. Now where did he spend the night I wonder?

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

Roaring Forties?

Has this isle, set in a silver sea, silently slid into the roaring forties whilst no-one was looking?
Last night the wood burning stove was giving a fair impression of Challenger taking off and wood was being consumed at a truly staggering rate.
I shut all the doors, waggled all the thingys and pushed in the whatsit and in theory converted it into a close copy of the charcoal burners' mounds on the hills above Swallow Dale.
To no avail, it continued to roar unabated. Charcoal was definitely not on the agenda. Log consumption was at a peak.

Defeated I retired to the bedroom where the wind was moaning round the windows, calling up images of Cathy on the high moors. The bathroom door thudded in a gently persistent way and the walnut tree branches scraped at the sky light in a non rhythmical slightly frenzied manner.

Next day, to add insult to injury, the bird table lying glumly on its side was the first thing to greet me as I reached for the kettle with bleary eyes. The peanut cage was flattened and the fat holder smashed, thus suet was lying in delectable blobs, just waiting to be greedily consumed by my ravening dogs.
Venturing out a squelshy "lawn" revealed that the pond was overflowing and the water within it was the colour and consistency of milky tea.

Turning on the kitchen tap, the murky nature of the water confirmed that the all singing, all dancing, massively expensive filter was failing to cope with the clay run off from the land drains and thus my drinking water would not pass any conceivable health and safety directive ré drinking water standards. I gulped a large glass of it just to show that we British still know how to cope in adversity!

Friday, December 01, 2006

PUPPIES!