I used to live right beside the river on the bank of the river Esk. Every time there were heavy rainbs we kids would get all excited about the river flooding.
I was there this weekend visiting Mum. The river had burst it’s banks. I was down there like a shot. Just the smell of the river mud threw me back years and years and years.
This was the shortcut under the bridge, no chance of nipping through today, just the ducks swimming through and enjoying the almost lake like proportions they have to play in.
Whole trees and nesting spots ripped up by the weight of the water and carried downstream. Stopped in abruptness by man made bridges, hazzards to the wrath of nature sweeping out on a new broom.
Will the water cross the road? Will it reach the houses? The police place piles of sandbags at every gate. People watch the tide coming in and the water rushing out. What will happen when they meat at 7pm?
Memories of watching from upstairs window as a little girl, worry that we would be washed away to sea on a tide of muddy water. All that was between us and disaster (in my ten year old mind) were those sandbags. They were like a security wall. Good Lord, when you think it is only a bag of sand. Such faith in sackcloth and grit!
Benches have become islands in a brown fast flowing sea.
Those whose nesting spots were washed away take up residence on the higher banks. Be patient, stand on one leg when all else fails….
The proud mama with her chicks. She brought them to safety, she is standing tall.
The river didn’t breach the lofty sandbags, they live to fight another day.
My Mum still hangin’ in there.