Through the floods

I set off from Slimbridge yesterday (Saturday) with no idea that the part of the world I was heading into was half under water. I started along the Gloucester and Sharpness Canal towpath as far as Frampton. The sky was about the drizzle and the air was cold and damp. There was then a super cycle lane into Stroud along an old railway line. Just as I reached the town, I found that its entire road system had been crippled due to the brass band from its twin town, Gouda, which was was marching through the streets. The tailback stretched out of the town - many people were inconvenienced, many person hours of labour were lost forever from the British economy while China's forged ahead unhindered. Gouda's band were obviously something to celebrate, so I followed them into the High Street where they carried on brightly, unaware perhaps that they were blocking the whole street. The kids stared discombobulated at their colonel blimp moustaches, busby hats and crimson tunics. They were a splash of colour on a grey day.
Leaving Stroud on the Slad Road I saw the worst effects of the flooding for the first time. Behind open front doors, families were trying to dry out their homes and salvage their belongings. The water level had fallen, leaving a layer of river sludge over everything, including the road and people's living rooms.
Climbing out of the town, the road eventually reached the hilltops. Steam was rising from the fields and roads and collecting in the woodlands as mist, giving the landscape a balmy, primal feel. If a pterodactyl had flown across the road, I'd have thought nothing of it (although the fatal risk of a very large bird poo might have crossed my mind).
Soon I was on single track roads through quiet, mysterious, misty forests that seemed hidden from the rest of the world. The previous day's torrents of water had eroded the road edges and left sludge and stones in islands on the way. Water was still running across the roads from swollen, brown streams but nothing was too deep to pass; from above, the world would have looked like cold coffee dribbles over a new green rug. I could hear running water everywhere. Every now and then, a plush house emerged from the landscape. These remote houses seemed like homes hidden from worldly worries - a sort of purchased freedom, I suppose, and a reminder of the wealth of the area.
Coming into Winchcombe, it was raining again and I realised that I hadn't had a cream tea since Cornwall. I found a cafe and piled in. It was all tinkling china cups and quaint ornaments with an atmosphere tight as a corset. It had about it that kind of strained politesse and decorum that comes when wealth and parochialism combine. I was wet, wearing a yellow 'Go green, go bike' t-shirt, and had mud spatters down my legs and oily hands. In other words, I was a yellow demonic presence dripping ectoplasm everywhere. I felt I didn't belong in this state so I left, put on a pullover, straightened my hair and crashed back in with a bit more force than I'd intended, making the 'open' sign clank noisily against the door. Pachelbel's Canon in D was playing on repeat as I ate my scones, and apparently all day long. This gave me one of my heads - I was at such sixes and sevens I nearly knocked over my tea cup.
Leaving the cafe, I spied the front cover of the Daily Mail. Instinctively I recoiled, but then drew near again to read the headline - Midsummer Monsoon. Only then did I realise something of what the previous day's rain had done. Winchcombe itself had been completely cut off, the lady in the tourist information office told me.
Along the rest of the route there were many places that were impassable the day before but had now cleared [excuse my grammar, now and forever - thanks]. In these places, abandoned cars lined the road at awkward angles, as if sprinkled along it. These must have become stuck in the water the day before. One or two had broken windows - looted. The roadside greenery was crushed flat, combed down by the rushing water, and there were large islands of stones and mud on the tarmac. Some sections of road were still slightly flooded but passable, although just three miles to the west, Evesham and Welford were underwater.
When I reached Stratford and my parents' house they showed me the news, confused as to how I managed to get through all the flooding - in fact, I'd barely been aware of it. Dad had been interviewed for the Today programme in the morning because he'd been organising sandbags for homes near the river. He missed his chance to tell the nation to stop the arms trade, but he did get in a dig at 4x4s somehow. Well done, Dad.
Today (Sunday) has been a rest day. Two friends from London, Sara and Helen, came up for lunch and a wander around the watery destruction. It was good to see some friends and family today - it's off on my own again tomorrow, and the forecast is for more rain, if the sky has any left to give.