Apres le pleuvoir, le deluge

After the rains, the flood

I miss the rains that fall in Seattle at this time of year – the soft, misty, drizzle in which one (theoretically at least) can go for long walks without getting soaked. By contrast, the rain squalls which sweep across this region in Central France release huge, thick, weighty drops of rain – think water balloons and you’re on the right track.

A few weekends ago, we had a particularly stormy day, and I was utterly drenched after a thirty yard dash from the cover of an awning outside a store, across the parking lot to my car – and I want to emphasize this: drenched. As in, “Perhaps I’ll go back into the store, purchase some bath towels and a robe and wait this sucker out.”

The next morning, we were surprised (being city-folk) to see that the level of the creek running through the field behind our house had risen quite a bit. What had been a meandering stream, five to ten feet wide and less than a foot deep in most spots, was now showing more ambition – small rapids, foam, and enough strength that when Miles slipped in the mud, I rushed quickly from my seat in the back yard (leaving behind an excellent Bordeaux and a hunk of foie gras) to help him to his feet, lest we be swept downstream.

After we extricated Miles from the muck, we stood by the river discussing the level of the water. I sagely pointed to a few places along the bank and trunks of trees and said, “See kids, sometimes the water gets even higher.” Call me Huck Finn or The Riverman.

Fast forward two weeks to Monday night when the rains began to fall again – it being dark, we could not see the sheets of water falling outside our window, but the sound of the drops on the tile roof was enough to keep Miles and I awake. The rains were still falling when we drove to school / work in the morning, and though there are no windows in the factory where I work, we could hear the wind and rain through the roof. At lunch, a party of six bundled up and head out to “Mama’s Place” – a short-drive away. When they returned, soaked to the skin, it seemed just as likely that they had sailed round Cape Horn in an open skiff.

Later that afternoon, I met Miles after school and as we drove home we saw many cars parked by the side of the road in the forest surrounding our town (Arthon). A couple of guys walking along the road with large baskets, and concluded that they were hunting for mushrooms – a very popular past-time in this area; conditions must have been excellent, because there were dozens more cars by the roadside.

We were also struck by the standing water covering many fields and pastures on the way home – what had been newly tilled soil just the day before, now looked like a rectangular reservoir. I enjoy guessing what the farmers are planting and harvesting as we drive past them in their tractors – but the sight of all this water made the game more complicated: soybeans, winter wheat, Chilean Sea Bass…?

But none of this prepared us for the sight which awaited us as we pulled up in front of our house. The small creek with occasional ambitions at river-hood had swelled to well over two hundred yards wide and now covered the entirety of the pasture behind our house. The smallish rapids we had seen a few weeks ago were now the real thing, threatening to over-take a dilapidated foot bridge which crosses the stream at one point. Think “National Geographic documentary of the first kayakers in the foot-hills of the Himalayans” and you’ll be getting close.

Before





After
Miles was strangely energized and excited by the transformation – and Lee, upon her arrival, was positively hysterical. She ran from one side of the house to the other, alternating between improvised dances of glee and fearful shrieks about the prospect of our house being washed away. I assured her that the house was still forty feet or more above the water-level and we were in no danger – but perhaps my credibility in area of hydrography and water-sheds had slipped a bit.

I too, was struck by the change. We enjoy a bucolic view from our kitchen window and I gaze out at the meadow, trees, birds, etc. as I wash the dishes. (Or at least, I enjoyed it the one time I washed the dishes, but I digress.) Last night though, all evidence of the pasture was gone, and in its place, a wide, fast-flowing river of brownish water, carrying small pieces of debris. Truly, if you came to visit and arrived last night, you might have said, “Wow, what a great spot! I’ve always wanted to live near a body of water. Do you do any fishing?” We had gone from Irish Highlands to Mississippi Delta overnight.

The rain let up before sunset, and the sounds from the roof were replaced by a mild roar from the rapids. I listened to the sounds well into the night, trying to imagine the sheer weight of the water moving past, and estimating how wide an area might be draining into this one creek – where does the water go? What happens to all the wildlife in the fields? What about the cows? Would Anderson Cooper be stopping by with a CNN camera crew? Would the President of France make a fly-by in Air Force Une (a picture of a thumb painted on the tail to avoid confusion with Air Force Deux)? Maybe Lee was on to something – perhaps I should bring a few of our belongings upstairs?

It’s morning now, and as I write this, the sun has yet to rise, but from the kitchen window, the sound of rushing water continues, unabated. I wonder if the library has any translations of Mark Twain?

Peace.