and as Osborn told me, ‘if there’s something coherent going on at all the mid-latitudes, then there must be something virtually global scale driving it’. Computer models of global warming have long illustrated this effect, and now it seems to be showing up in the real world, just as many scientists – including Osborn himself – have long predicted.
MONMOUTH, FEBRUARY 2002
Just under 10,000 homes were flooded in Britain during the 2000 event. Some were hit two or three times, and a few left completely uninhabitable. Transport and power services were disrupted, and the cost of flood-related damage eventually totalled around £1 billion, according to the government’s Environment Agency.16 Everybody breathed a sigh of relief when it was finally over, but only one year and three months later – in the first week of February 2002 – the floods were back.
This time one of the worst-hit places was Monmouth, a historic town just over the Welsh border at the confluence of the rivers Monnow and Wye. On 4 February ‘severe flood warnings’ were issued for both rivers, schools were closed and residents in low-lying areas began to move themselves upstairs. Twenty families were evacuated from mobile homes when the Wye burst its banks, and three streets were completely submerged.
Judging from the news Monmouth sounded well worth a visit. This meant hiring a car, but I was ready to leave by mid-morning, heading towards Cheltenham on the old A40. The River Thames was pretty high, and when the road crossed some small rivers on the way over the Cotswold hills, I could see that each was swollen, its banks only identifiable by lines of willow trees standing in the brown water.
Just outside Gloucester was the first sign of large-scale flooding – a huge new lake stretched almost as far as the eye could see. Trees, telegraph poles and even an electricity substation were surrounded by water, and a couple of swans paddled by.
I drove on. The sky was darkening again with ominous clouds as I neared Wales, and soon a heavy shower sent torrents of new water coursing down off the hillsides.
About ten miles outside Monmouth I spotted a ‘Road Closed’ sign and drove round it to investigate. I was deep in the Forest of Dean, and the small road led down a steep wooded valley towards the River Wye. On the river itself was a small village, little more than a hamlet, called Lower Lydbrook.
Lower Lydbrook looked like it had been doused entirely in mud. Mud was everywhere: across the road, the pavements, people’s drives and lawns. The whole area had clearly been awash with very dirty floodwater only a few hours beforehand. Outside the Courtfield Arms a man was sweeping the sticky brown mess off the car park. I slithered up to him and asked whether he felt the flooding was getting worse.
His answer was surprising. In the past the floods had come once every three or four years. Now it was two or three times in a single year. And the latest inundation was easily the worst for three decades.
On the other side of the road was a restaurant called the Garden Café. All the gravel in its neat drive was coated with the same brown layer, as was a car parked outside. I followed some fresh footprints round to a side door. It was swinging open, and I peered into the gloom inside. Not surprisingly the place was a mess: fridges were stacked up on tables and wet rugs were hanging from the beams. There was a pervasive damp musty smell, and a clear high-water line about a metre up the walls.
The owner was happy to take a break from cleaning up, and introduced himself. ‘Paul Hayes. Owner and chef of the Garden Café.’ He looked around at the disastrous mess and added: ‘Currently on holiday.’
Hayes was certain that the flooding had got worse in recent years. It wasn’t necessarily that more rain fell overall – but rather than being averaged out over a month, the whole lot simply fell in one night.
‘We don’t have a winter any more, we have a wet season. It’s like tropical rainstorms here. And because it’s a hilly area this translates into flash floods. The river rose six metres from its level last week. It came in here at four on Sunday morning, and within another two hours reached a metre up the wall. It never used to flood in the house, but that’s three years in a row we’ve been flooded now.’
As a result, his business was wrecked. All the fridges were ruined, he was losing customers every day the restaurant remained closed, and all his stock would have to be thrown away. Nor was this the first time: during the winter of 2000 – when the building had been flooded on three separate occasions in October, December and January – he had only managed to open for twelve days throughout the whole four-month period. And with the whole property now virtually uninsurable, no buyer would even look at it.
Hayes had a knowing, worldly manner, but I could tell that even he had been thrown by the latest deluge. ‘It came so suddenly,’ he said, almost perplexed. ‘I knew it was going to flood, even though there was no flood warning. And if it rains in the next week it’ll flood again – all that water’s got nowhere to go.’
In Monmouth itself the floodwaters had only just begun to recede. Most of the town was unaffected – the Romans had sensibly founded it on a hill, but developments in more recent centuries have extended the town right along the river. Built at the confluence of two rivers, and not far from the tidal estuary, the area has always been prone to flooding – the one reliable crossing point has been called Dry Bridge Street since Norman times.
When I arrived, though, Dry Bridge Street was half underwater.
Children were splashing around and riding their bikes through it, whilst dog-walkers in wellington boots waded through to a nearby park. Sandbags were stacked in front of every front door. Opposite the bridge itself, the Green Dragon pub had narrowly missed inundation just hours earlier. A hundred yards away, the Britannia Inn had not been so lucky, and water was still being pumped out of it into the road.
I knocked on the door and it was opened by a young woman with short brown hair.
‘We’re closed because of the floods,’ she began, looking at me as if I were stupid. But when I explained what I wanted, she invited me inside.
Several regulars were sitting on benches reading newspapers in the gloomy half-light. A couple of others were helping sweep mud off the stone floor. Everyone agreed that the flooding was getting worse.
‘This place is rotting,’ complained the landlady. ‘There is constant damp from the rain and sewage.’ She poked disapprovingly at some blistered paint on the lower walls. ‘It just keeps getting flooded. In the past it didn’t seem as often – now it’s twice a year. It’s just constantly, all the time. It’s hard enough to make a living in this trade as it is, without all this happening.’
‘Thirty years ago you knew what the seasons were,’ one of the regulars added, leaning on his broom. ‘Now you don’t know. It’s got to be to do with the way the weather changes – the rainfall is unbelievable.’
I drove out of Monmouth and into Wales, the first mountains rising up in the distance. It was raining again, and just before Crickhowell flood warnings appeared by the side of the road. A small house next to a layby was completely surrounded, the water so deep in places that only the tops of the roadsigns stood out. I reached Machynlleth and my old friend Helena’s house, on the west coast of Wales, long after dark, and lay awake listening to the rain hammering on the roof long into the night.
Machynlleth has a small museum-cum-art gallery called the Tabernacle, a compact slate-roofed building not far from the railway station. I headed down there in the morning with Helena. Not being a huge fan of the abstract oil paintings on the wall, I tried instead to engage the white-haired old lady behind the front desk in conversation. It’s always easy, whether you’re in England, Scotland or Wales, to strike up a conversation about the weather.
‘Terrible weather, isn’t it?’ I ventured. The old lady carried on arranging some leaflets on the desk. I noticed her hearing aid, and tried again, more loudly.
‘TERRIBLE WEATHER, ISN’T IT?’
‘Oh