To say we’ve had a lot of rain here is an understatement. Further West, it’s worse. A lot worse.
But the soil here is clay, which drains badly. The fields aren’t soaking up the water any more. It sits there in pools. And when there’s a big downpour (like there was on Friday morning), there’s nowhere for it to go….a lot of the fields are now submerged.
So far, attempts to get Boy walking have been a partial success. He is no longer keen on walking unless it involves either an activity or a purpose. (Like vegetables, fresh air exercise has to be cunningly disguised). But the rain has added a new dimension to our Sunday ramble. Unofficial footpath diversions apart, Boy revels in the wetness, marvelling at the mother of all puddles. Strangely, he seems quite excited at the prospect of the ditch flooding, checking it each morning (no longer glued to the CBBC Schedule).
The journey to school has taken on epic proportions. I try to remember where all the submerged pot holes are, and assess how far the road is from becoming impassable. However, Boy relishes the strange watery kingdom stretching out in front of us.
For him, it’s a new Avalon, the pinnacle of St Sampson’s rising majestically in the distance. An island fortress surrounded by shimmering lakes….and a perilous causeway (more mundanely known as the B4553) guarded by fearsome dragons (or just very wet cows).
I too see the water-logged fields in a new light, glimpsing the beauty as well as the threat.
And, even when the water gets too close for comfort, Boy makes the most of his reportage skills.