Morus y Gwynt….

Morus y Gwynt ac Ifan y glaw,

Daflodd fy nghap i ganol y baw!”

Morus the wind and Ifan the rain blew my cap into the middle of the dirt….This couplet has been recited to young children in Wales for generations. Naming the notorious winter weather isn’t new here. But now the trend for naming storms has reached the UK and storm Desmond was the latest.

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A moment of clarity….Wales. Home. The calm before the storm.

Wreaking havoc in places like Cumbria, where the towns of Keswick and Carlisle are now dealing with the aftermath of flooding, farms are struggling to manage livestock and businesses as their land and stock lies submerged. And it’s happening time, after time, after time…

People are losing posessions, irreplacable belongings but more importantly, they are losing the sense of security that a home brings. Knowing that shutting the door on the weather isn’t always going to guarantee safety anymore. Farmers are losing animals that they have raised, cared for, invested in, they are losing feed stock leaving them unable to provide for the animals that were able to reach safety, they are losing money when they have no produce to sell on. And it happens so quickly, a few hours of a passing storm and when the storms blows itself out, it takes a lot of security and certainty with it.

Communities rally round. Doors are opened and beds are offered to those who can’t go home. Spare clothes, toys for the kids, hot mugs of tea, shoulders to cry on. Neighbouring farms open their barns to animals who can’t make it home, share their stock to feed a neighbours flock, lend machinery, spend time helping the farmer who needs to rebuild fences, clear out barns, replant his crop.

It’s the same the world over. Humans come together and help each other out when it’s them versus Nature. Risking lives to save lives. Because in the grip of Nature’s force, all we can do is cling to each other and hope it will pass quickly, hope that there will be something left to rebuild.

As a nation, the British are obssessed with weather. We are known for it. We complain when it’s too hot, too cold, too wet, too windy. We use it as a topic to break the ice in social situations. Because we never really know what’s coming in from the Atlantic. Or Siberia. Or the Sahara. Now we’re naming it as if it won’t make it seem quite so alien. ‘Oh, that? That’s just Desmond hammering at the door and ripping the roof off.’

We escaped unscathed. I think, in no small part, due to the small trench I dug a few hours after Desmond arrived. When we were still on course to build an extension there were groundworks done at the back of the cottage. On the one hand, it held rainwater and surface water draining from the higher field behind us and created a rather impressive lake. On the other hand it held that water away from our indoor floor level long enough for me to realise that a problem might be looming, long enough for me to dig a trench deep enough to drain the excess water away from the cottage. So we didn’t flood, because I had learned from experience when, back in 2012, we did.

Just two weeks after moving in, with a 2 year old and 4 month old we experienced more rain in 12 hours than we would have in a month. And while I was stood in the kitchen that afternoon, I saw the movement out of the corner of my eye. That trickle, that became a stream, that covered half the kitchen floor before it reached the front door and found a way out. But by then it had already covered the bathroom and the boys bedroom. The water levels outside had ‘breached’ our floor level. Once it had drained enough surplus though half the cottage, it stopped. I ran outside and could see, just by the volume of rain, by the waterfall that had appeared from the field behind and by the lake that was filling quickly, that it was going to happen again. And this time it was going to come in through the back door as well, which meant the lounge was going to flood. I lifted the baby, sleeping in his rocking chair, and placed him on the kitchen table, I ran into the lounge and threw every item on the floor onto the chairs and sofa. I scooped up the toddler and waited. What else could I do? And the water came in. Silently. Contaminating the home, not with sewage, but with anger and despair. At 1,000ft up a mountain with the nearest water source in the field below us, we never imagined we would be at risk of flood.

The second time round wasn’t as much fun for the toddler who had splashed through the first lot. He was frightened and as more water came in I began to wonder just jow long it would last, how deep would this actually get? I’ve never been a fan of Robbie Williams but when his song ‘Candy’ came on the radio we began to dance. I danced around the sleeping baby on the kitchen table, with the toddler on my hip and water around my ankles. I wondered, what the hell had we done?

Later, C , who had been stuck at work with their own crisis to deal with, was told that many women would have packed up and taken the kids elsewhere. We were lucky, we lost nothing. The damage was more psychological than anything. So when the rain falls heavily and for a long time, I will go around the back of the cottage and just check.  And if it starts to look like a small lake, I make sure the kids are safe and see where I need to dig. A storm drain is high on our list of priorities.

Morus can howl as hard as he likes, and Ifan can pour an ocean, but we will do what we have to protect our cottage and it’s precious residents. And I hope the people of Cumbria feel that in amongst the things they lost, they didn’t lose their sense of home.

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