Watter!

June 22^nd, summer solstice plus two. The day's unrelenting wind and rain sent us fleeing to the sanctuary of the Cartford. Outside, in the darkness, the Wyre rose, swelled and lapped its banks. Some time later Julie announced that a fallen tree was blocking Cartford Lane and the St Michaels road was flooded and impassible. Everyone except the poor old driver (me, dammit) had another one for the road. Eventually, huddled against the storm, we crept out into the squalling, streaming night. Through the utter blackness we sensed the power of the swollen river surging past only feet away from the inn's foundations, another dance step in their centuries old partnership. Up the hill, headlights wavered through the deluge as unwary drivers were turned back. We took the only available route through Hambleton. Early next morning, as the rain began to ease, I walked down to the river. The tree, an ancient, rugged willow, lay sprawled across the width of the lane. Someone had hacked enough branches away to allow cars to squeeze past. The river still flowed in spate, a glossy brown torrent, sucking and gurgling along the top of the bank a table's length away from the dining room window and hissing around the stone pillars of the bridge. I felt the bridge railings vibrate with the power of it. Not for the first time our placid little Wyre was flexing its muscles. At that moment the rain ceased and the sky attempted a pale, watery smile of sunlight, like a diffident puppy offering apologies for last night's misbehaviour.