In heavy rain, Wolsingham is prone to flash flooding. The streets can turn into instant rivers and sandbags are a permanent presence in some vulnerable areas. Despite being rather close to the river, water runoff flows safely past our house and so we only fret when the river starts rising.
Last night we were sitting in the pub when the heavens opened. The downpour barely lasted long enough for us to reminisce about previous flood events, and mock the hapless householder whose broken down pipe was pumping water down their wall (“they need to fix that if they don’t want the damp to seep in”). It lasted just long enough for us to prolong our stay in the pub by two rounds.
So I really wasn’t expecting My Taller Half’s cry upon opening the back door “where has all this water come from?”. We had a flood.
First we checked the roof, then the door and windows. It looked like someone had turned on a hose. Then I remembered that sputtering down pipe we had been so quick to judge. Our back porch encloses the drain for the kitchen sink and back gutter. The force of the water had driven all the moss from the gutter into the drain and blocked it. Twenty minutes worth of thunderstorm was now sitting on our porch floor.
On the bright side, only the porch was flooded and I have now lifted off the final piece of hated lino. On the downside, our plans to get the floor tiled will have to wait for it to dry out. If only we’d had the foresight to get our gutters cleaned.
Next time I hope we think twice before passing comment on the misfortune of others.