Build me an ark!

Build me an ark! For the rivers have burst their banks, and we have no eggs. This is serious. Although maybe not as serious as my friend finding half the Evenlode river come to stay at her house (uninvited), and flood water in her kitchen cupboards. She has lived here all her life and cannot remember weather like it. It's as if Old Father Thames and his children have thrown a party which got slightly out of control. Nearby Brize Norton had the most amount of rainfall in recorded history; 4.6 inches. Yesterday it rained and rained and rained some more. It was so bad that the cats called a truce and in a moment of solidarity decided to share the sofa...

It was so bad that today Andy decided to dig up the remainder of his precious potato crops.

which one of these is not a potato, can you guess?

But, as I said, we did need eggs. And the egg place is a few miles away in another village. So this morning, Hercules and I ventured forth on a mission. Our normal route -

- was somewhat flooded. This is the Evenlode getting a bit leery after tanking it up all night. The same river which runs near my friends' house and popped in to say hello, without knocking at the door.

(click on picture for full technicolour panoramic experience)

It became apparent that the county's drivers were experiencing a rare experience - not being able to go where they wanted precisely when they wanted. I have this all the time, being a non-driver, and one likes it or, as my old dad used to say, one lumps it. An irate lady in an SUV asked me if I thought it was safe to cross (what do you think lady, the river is pounding over the road, the currents look treacherous, there's already a car stranded in the ditch - hmm...tough call). I replied that no, I didn't think so, not even (I had to add, inwardly grinning) in 'one of those', nodding at her silver tank.

In fact, as I returned up the hill and took an alternate route, the roads were full of righteously fuming people raging at the weather gods, clamping their foot on the accelerator to make up for lost time and whizzing past me at more mph than they strictly should have been. I took the path running past the woods, able to nip through minor floods where vehicles were struggling. The ducks at the deserted farm were rejoicing -


- and when we got to our destination...

...the village flock had enrolled in military service and were on parade. Left, right, left right, at the double!

I squelched onwards,past kids in wellies wading gleefully through pools of water, past the postman doing sterling service and passing on news door to door of the local floods - even in the age of the internet, this kind of first hand reporting is vital in our rural area. And so on to the egg place, not as picturesque as the rural idylls I see in certain lifestyle magazines, and all the better for it. It has geraniums, and clematis, a sleepy black labrador and a weather vane. So who cares about the plastic sacks and the baler twine?



It is self service. As long as you have gone through the initiation and people know who you are, you simply stroll across the yard, past the kennel...

...past the friendly doorstop...

...pop in to the outer hall, pick your eggs, and leave your money. A rather old fashioned, quaint form of shopping which relies entirely on honesty and trust. I always go for the ones with muck on, as they've been collected that very morning.






And so we returned through the swampy mire which is Oxfordshire at the moment, with our precious cargo of fresh eggs. Hercules has had to carry many things in his job as my personal chauffeur, and he prefers eggs to dead snakes. Tonight Andy and I will feast on potatos and eggs, and feel thankful that we have been spared the ravages of this bizarre monsoon season.

If this saga has not been enough, there are more flood pictures here and an extended account of the great egg chase.

Well, Well, Well, Who's that callin'?
Well, Well, Well, Hold my hand.
Well, Well, Well, Night is a-fallin',
Spirit is a-movin' all over this land.

Lord told Noah, Build him an ark,
Build it out of hickory bark.
Old ark a-movin', and the water start to climb,
God send a fire, not a flood next time.

(Peter, Paul and Mary, 'Well, Well, Well' which has to be one of my many favourite songs of all time)

Where the barley meets the river

I realised I haven't been out for ages...I'm not mad keen on summer. Oh, it's ok in a rather obvious way, but it lacks soul - it doesn't twist my heart in the way spring or autumn do. It has it's moments though and you don't have to take a cardi out. After a bit of a pootle, I turned back towards the woods, where someone had been busy...

The road was strewn with bits of bark, so being all thrifty and forward thinking, I collected a basketful to store for kindling. I was trying to remember the common law on gathering, in case some officious keeper came along to stop my peasant gleanings, and I think I was within my rights, being on a public highway.

My real purpose had been to find a quiet spot to contemplate not-much-at-all, so leaving Hercules the bike to guard my hoard, I cut through the woods, dark and leafy but quite dry now. The little stream was all cracked, although only a few months ago it was chuckling away and overgrown with ferns. Further on, the fields beckoned.

Swallows dipped low over the toasting barley and a muscular breeze whisked off the worst of the sun. To my delight there were lots of butterflies about. I am always heartened by butterflies - there are so few nowadays. I imagine a time when they will be as mythological as fairies.

"Mother, tell me about butterflies"
"Oh...butterflies" and the mother smiled, remembering that once, she too believed in butterflies, and her mother had told her the same legend, and her mother before her.
"Well, butterflies were wonderful things...it is said that when they were born, they transformed from funny, ugly worms into the most beautiful winged creatures, who flew about under the sun. They had gorgeous wings, coloured with marvelous patterns, and although they only lived for a few days, it was a life full of happiness and joy. There were so many kinds of butterflies; some were tiny, others quite large."
"As large as me mother?" interrupted the awestruck child. The mother laughed.
"Not quite as large as you darling. But maybe as large as your hand." The child spread her hand, with wondering eyes, imagining one fluttering on her outstretched palm.
"What did they eat, mother?"
"Well, most of them sipped nectar from flowers." The child frowned.
"What are flowers, mother?"
"Ahh...now that will have to wait for another day".

Almost hidden from view, the river Evenlode sleepily slops its way towards Oxford. I found the patch I was looking for - a bend in the river, with the barley fields behind me. Quite alone, and feeling a rare contentment, I watched a city of skinny red beetles commute from stalk to stalk. Crickets were chumming away and turquoise mayflies skipped courtship dances across the sparkling water. Beneath my feet, the whispering willow tree dipped down to tell secrets to the river.