I feel somehow that four years’ obsession with the level of the ford was vindicated this morning when a driver pulled up to ask us if we knew how high it was (he being on the side of the river where the sign was broken) before he risked crossing.* If all else fails, a useful career as human depth gauge beckons – or perhaps FordCam is after all an idea whose time has come.
Meanwhile this tweet proved premature yesterday:
We had my aunt and uncle staying last night and by the time they had had arrived, had a reviving cup of tea and a bun and settled in, the road was fully flooded again. By this point it didn’t matter what the drains were doing: the water was so high it was draining off the road through the gaps between the stones in the dykes. Our guests having somehow neglected to bring waders (despite reading the blog), we decided against checking the level of the ford and retreated to spend the evening by the woodburning stove.
Today, after creating an extremely satisfying bath-emptying type whirlpool with my trusty stick, I attempted to clear the drains out properly, much to the amusement of the passing postman. As he pointed out there’s not much you can do when there’s basically a burn emptying itself onto the road faster than any culvert can clear it. That said, he’s not averse to doing the council roads department’s jobs for them either: it turns out that it was he who cracked and removed the ‘ford closed’ sign after 7 months and returned it to the depot (I did think at the time it was a bit quick), while it was a local farmer and his tractor that removed the latest tree. Perhaps we could get together with some paint and a ruler and sort out another depth gauge …
He then handed me our letters and the neighbour’s and asked me if I’d mind delivering them for him to save him going up the drive. Which I did. Other people’s jobs are always so much more entertaining than your own.
So if anyone would like to finish rewriting my book for me while I go out and clear some culverts, please get in touch. I’ll be the one up to my welly tops in water, poking things with a stick.
*Nine inches; he made it across with no problems