The warning sign at the side of the road tells me the bridge ahead over the river is closed, because of recent flooding. For the last twenty minutes or so, I’ve been driving aimlessly around, trying not to go home, because there are boring tasks to do. I prefer to be out - even in a car – in this early January early afternoon peculiar quality of half-light.
It’s a flat and some would say featureless landscape I’m driving through – a quiet rural road with nowhere to go at the end of it because the river has once again broken its banks. I expect to see little traffic, or people about, and indeed see neither. I drive right to the edge where road meets floodwater, stop, turn off the engine, get out of the car. I take a couple of deep breaths and look around this mysterious new world. Little waves lap at my tyres, as if I’ve driven my car onto a beach somewhere, to the very edge of the ocean. It’s strange to see a well-known road, normally with stretches of fields on either side, suddenly become one massive waterscape. I find all bodies of water fascinating, from oceans to woodland streams, but particularly so when they appear as unexpectedly as this. When they are not where they are supposed to be.
I stand still a moment, feeling my way into this liminal world. Border territory: earth and water, dark and light, civilisation and wilderness. Post the storms that caused the flooding, it’s now a nothing zone: no breeze, no noise apart from some lapwings calling, nothing to be seen except for a village in the distance looking like something out of ancient legend, completely surrounded by water, apparently deserted. No people, no vehicles, no movement. Nothing stirs.
I pull on my wellingtons, and binoculars round my neck, step into this mystical waterscape, moving slowly into the water. I know I’m just walking along the road, I can feel it beneath my feet, though can’t see it, and as the water level doesn’t appear to be getting much higher, I continue walking into this newly created sea. Slowly moving further and further into this other reality, I am soon surrounded by water, and my car appears to have become smaller.
The rational part of me – sensible brain, I call it - knows this is probably not a particularly sensible thing to be doing, in flooded terrain on a darkening January afternoon, with gathering grey clouds and more rain imminent. But I am enchanted by the oddness of this transformed landscape, and now I see a pair of swans sailing along together down this minor B road. I stand still and scan for the lapwings I heard earlier. There’s a small island of earth over to the right, with a few shreds of vegetation showing, and there they are feeding, presumably having found rich pickings in the mud from the broken riverbanks. I watch them through my binoculars and see other birds there too – a couple of crows, a few mallards. A larger long-legged bird I can only negatively identify: not heron, not curlew, not redshank.
I’m now in water almost to the top of my boots. I close my eyes, to better absorb what I hear. The lapwings are calling again and as the sound becomes louder, I open my eyes to see them flying above my head with their characteristic slow flopping movement. I watch them until they are out of sight.
It’s now completely silent apart from a quiet shrush of the water around my boots. I close my eyes again, hoping to shift deeper into this altered state of consciousness. I feel as if I want to just walk on, until I need to swim, or even better turn on my back and float as I love to do in natural bodies of water. I want to become one with this watery environment, and it annoys me that I feel I must resist the temptation. I walk on further, and look back at my car, pleased it’s now as small as a toy.
Sensible brain is still keeping me aware this is not a good plan. It runs the media stories as it loves to do: abandoned vehicle found at water’s edge… pair of women’s shoes next to it… no trace of the driver… drama drama.
But it’s not until I get the shock of icy cold water slopping over the top of my boots that I return fully to ordinary reality. A breeze has sprung up, and a few drops of rain touch my face. But when I try to turn around to walk back to my car, I feel my feet stuck in mud beneath the water. I must have stepped off the road.
I feel no fear, just an odd curiosity… perhaps some part of me is still in an altered state. Perhaps this is how it is for people who drown themselves by walking into the sea. No fear or panic, just a simple one foot in front of the other until their legs are buoyant and their body floats away.
I can’t see the swans any more, and there are no birds feeding on the little island. A few lights are now twinkling in the village, making it seem like a distant cruise ship, moored in some vast ocean. I notice a set of car headlights: the only moving thing, it seems, though not coming this way. I feel as if I have been here for hours, walking and standing in this watery wilderness, though when I check my watch, I’m surprised to discover it’s barely half an hour.
I wriggle my toes, twist my ankles a little, and try a couple of tentative steps one way, then another. I soon unstick my feet and find a way back to the submerged road. I’m almost disappointed, but sensible brain stays alert and I reluctantly set off towards my car, home, and the waiting tasks.
I do enjoy the water squelching satisfyingly in my boots though, and that it’s raining heavily now and I’m beginning to feel cold. As I switch on the ignition, and the car heater, I can play with the notion of being in far more danger than I probably was. I head for home: centrally heated, and with a casserole in the slow cooker.
