and inspired because there was still time to avert a far greater catastrophe.
This global quest wouldn’t be easy, and at one point it would almost cost me my life. But at the end of it all I knew I would return to Wales with a box of slides. I would draw the curtains. I would set up the projector. And then I would answer my father’s question.
It was still raining, and York station was in complete chaos. The railway track was underwater both north and east of the city, and trains for Edinburgh, Newcastle and Aberdeen were terminating there, disgorging their tired and confused passengers into the mêlée. People dragged their luggage in and out of crowded waiting rooms as train after train listed on the display board was cancelled. Harassed staff tried to show passengers alternative routes via local buses, whilst others simply fled from the station concourse, pursued by angry travellers demanding to know how they could ever reach their destinations.
It was the beginning of November 2000. By the end of the month Britain would have experienced some of the heaviest rainfall and worst flooding ever recorded. On the miserable Friday night I arrived in York, newspapers and radio shows were already buzzing with speculation. This wasn’t normal, everyone agreed. Floods had come and gone before, and Britain was supposed to be rainy. But no one could remember anything like this. There had to be some new explanation.
October had also been a washout. On 11 October Kent, Sussex and Hampshire received ten centimetres of rain – more than a month’s usual average in a single day. Sixty government flood warnings were issued for the southeast of England, and the residents of Uckfield awoke to find their town centre under more than a metre of water. Lifeboats rescued people stranded in their homes, and one shopkeeper was washed away by the rising flood as he tried to open his shop door. Horrified neighbours looked on as he was sucked down the high street by the torrent. ‘He didn’t even have a chance to scream, the water was so fierce,’ one told a Guardian journalist. (‘“Unheard of” rain sweeps the south’ was the newspaper’s dramatic headline.1) Happily, the shopkeeper was later found clinging to a riverbank.
Close by, a supermarket’s windows caved in under the pressure of the water, and stock began to float off the shelves and away down the street. In Lewes, a town downstream on the same river, council staff had to drive around with a loudhailer warning residents in low-lying areas to evacuate to higher ground. Six lifeboatmen were lucky to escape with their lives when their boat was nearly trapped under a bridge.
And still it kept on raining. The government’s countryside minister, Elliot Morley, was one of the first to acknowledge something unusual when he visited the area the next day. ‘We seem to be having more violent weather patterns and we accept that it could be due to global warming,’ he said.2
Was the minister right? Had climate change indeed come home to Britain?
York was dark and eerily deserted. The heavy rain had turned to heavy sleet, and just a few cars splashed through the huge puddles that had gathered in the road. I walked along beside the old city walls, down towards the river.
The Ouse was almost unrecognisable. There was no sign of a riverbank – instead the water reached right round the buildings on both sides, and was almost touching the top of the arches of the road bridge. In the glow of the streetlights it looked as slick as oil, but also seemed to be moving impossibly fast, swirling forcefully around the stones of the bridge. In both directions streets which had usually led to boatyards, pubs and restaurants were deserted, the bustle of people replaced with lapping black water.
The worst of the rain had fallen two days earlier, when an intense depression – the remnants of an Atlantic hurricane – crossed the country, dumping several inches on the Pennine Hills. With the ground already saturated from previous deluges, the new water simply sluiced off into the rivers Nidd, Wharfe and Aire. The Aire valley was particularly hard-hit, and in the Yorkshire towns of Keighley, Skipton and Bingley families had been forced to camp out in leisure centres and bed and breakfast accommodation. Further downstream in Leeds the runoff overtopped embankments usually eight metres above the water level, turning city streets into canals temporarily reminiscent of Venice.
York is often hit by floods, but it was soon apparent that this disaster was off the usual scale. The day before I arrived, the Archbishop of York had paddled around his palace in a dinghy, whilst tourist rowing boats had been commandeered to evacuate an old people’s home. That day the water was within half a metre of breaching flood defences, which would have submerged another seven hundred houses.
On 2 November, as I peered over the bridge at the rising River Ouse, the nationwide floods were already the most extensive on record. But the worst was yet to come.
No one knew where I could catch a bus to Scarborough (the railway line was under a metre and a half of water at Malton). I found the coach almost by accident on the station forecourt, already besieged by bedraggled travellers, most of whom wanted it to be going somewhere other than Scarborough. Rain was still coming down in torrents and people hurried on board, shaking off their umbrellas on the bus steps. The journey took much longer than usual, and as we passed through the Yorkshire lowlands the darkness outside was inky black through the steamed-up windows.
My sister’s husband Steve was waiting in his car when we arrived.
‘The main road to Filey’s cut off,’ he said. ‘But there are other ways in on the country roads, so I’m pretty sure we’ll get through.’
As we left Scarborough the rain turned halfway back into sleet, and began to pelt down at an even more incredible rate. Steve had to slow right down, and with the headlights on full beam the drops falling from the sky seemed to unfold like curtains. Water was simply sheeting off the fields into the road, collecting in any dips and low points in large ponds. We passed a big roundabout near Filey which was almost entirely submerged. In the flashing headlights of an emergency vehicle I could see a stranded car in what looked like a lake. We tried several other routes, before finally making it through to Filey on the last open road.
The scale of the damage became clear next morning. Just across the street from my sister’s house is a small stream which runs down to the beach in a narrow cutting, next to a tarmac path which is shaded by trees in the summer. All the way down the valley the path had been ripped up – huge slabs of tarmac tossed around and dumped with piles of other debris on the beach. Rubbish was stranded a metre or so up the trees, showing how high the water level had reached. I hadn’t seen it happen, but it was clear that what had taken place in that quiet valley was virtually a flash flood. Filey was still officially cut off, and all the way along the back of the beach mudslides had fallen from the saturated cliff face. In the town itself, various front gardens had turned into small lakes.
Even then it didn’t stop raining. There was a brief respite for a couple of days, but weather reports identified another storm already gathering out in the Atlantic, where higher-than-average sea surface temperatures were giving the depressions more energy and moisture than usual. In York more than 4000 homes were evacuated as the river crested at levels unmatched in over a century. The tiny village of Naburn, just south of the town, became an island – veterans of the Mozambique floods from the International Rescue Corps were drafted in to help safeguard lives and belongings. Nationwide the death toll now stood at eight. In Naburn there was some good news: a baby was born, tended by a midwife also marooned on the new
