Floods damage people as much as property

In the latest in his series examining ideas of place and pathway, Will Gore recalls a fear of rising water

Flooding in London in 2007 was a source of much distress (Getty)

Rarely can a flooded village have had such an apposite name as the currently benighted Fishlake.

The coincidence of the River Don overflowing during an election campaign means the flood’s consequences are seen by the rest of us through the prism of politics as much as of personal loss. No wonder those affected have given visiting party leaders generally short shrift. They just want to get their homes and lives back. The weather forecast, which doesn’t look promising, is of more significance than any appearance by the prime minister.

In my childhood, the river which ran through our village burst its banks a couple of times, overcoming the flood defences which had been built during the 1960s. The Dog and Duck pub, and the cottages close to it on the High Street, bore the brunt.

Our house was well away from the rising water, and in any case, for children the flooding was a source of fascination, even fun. We rode around the village on our bikes, edging through the shallows or loitering on bridges above the raging torrent. The impact on those who had watched on helplessly as the muddy river rushed into their homes or businesses was frankly lost on us.

Years later, I came to understand the hideousness of it all a little better.

We had bought our first home, a basement flat in south London, and made it beautiful. We had more or less eradicated the damp problem, replastered ceilings, chosen muted colours for the walls and laid pristine, off-white carpets. For 18 months or so, all was perfect.

As time went by though, I started to wonder why I could hear water draining when I had surely heard nothing in the early days of living there. A sink full of water or a flushing loo would be heard for minutes afterwards as a faint gurgle under our feet.

Finally, on a cold afternoon, when perhaps too many taps were being run in our flat and the one above, water suddenly and inexorably began to rise through a hidden drain cover under the bathroom floor, seeping with appalling speed into the bedroom and hallway. We legged it upstairs to urge the neighbours not to flush their toilets. An emergency plumber came, and unblocked the drain: and twice more when there was a repeat.

The next summer – that wet, wet summer of 2007 – there was significant flooding across the capital. One afternoon I came home from work knowing that many lower-ground-floor properties had been badly damaged. I turned into our road, which was on a hill – with our place near the top – full of fear. I peered through the window of the first basement flat: brown water swirled just below the window sill. The next one was the same.

As I gained height, I began to see the water levels in people’s home were lower. I had tried to call ahead but my wife wasn’t answering the phone. What did that mean? I hurried on, and at last I looked through a window into a flat – three or four doors down from ours – which seemed dry. I turned my key in our lock, not believing that we could be so lucky. But we could, and the relief washed over me.

Yet we knew the drain under the house remained unreliable. We had replaced carpets once already and I spent half my time in the flat checking for unusual noises or damp patches. I became an insomniac, so convinced was I that we would be inundated with water again at any moment. Irrational it may have been, but I had lost trust in the place.

We had already decided to move; indeed, to leave London altogether. And while we had loved our little home, I was glad to get out and to be in a house that was fully above ground.

Floods leave their mark: on trashed carpets, cracked plaster, blistered paint; and on people. Politicians – and let’s be honest, the rest of us too – will forget about Fishlake soon enough. But its residents will not think of water in the same way ever again.