A Watery Tale
The Overflow
Last weekend winter was never ending. The house felt draughtier than ever before. The north wind sent cold gusts of air down the chimney causing the smoke to swirl and curl in the fireplace. The flames faltered, refused to take hold or give out any heat. My blocked sinuses kept me inside, not wanting to walk or talk. The urge to have a long hot soak in my tin bath was real. But it’s a tricky one, it’s really not something we do at a drop of a hat anymore.
In fact due to an incredibly hot, parched summer followed by a relatively dry autumn we are on constant water watch. The last time it rained was December 20th. Being entirely dependent on our natural water source, we are at the mercy of the increasingly unpredictable rain cycle. And we watch the metéo like hawks. My last bath was taken in April 2022…
At this point I would like to clarify, I do shower every day! I have a routine - a quick in, soap down, rinse and out. What I am talking about here is a long, steaming, deep, fragrant bath - not to wash - but to soak, to slosh, to wallow…
Living where we do, on a hillside with no mains water, our dependence on our water source is absolute. It is seems such an obvious thing to say but unlikely as it now seems, when we bought the house fifteen years ago, we naively gave little thought to the water supply. Swept up in the romance of buying an old stone house with jaw dropping views and convinced somebody was going to buy our dream house from under us, we gave brief consideration to the practicalities of life here. Namely living with an inadequate electricity supply and water that came up from the ground which we had no control over.
It will be fine I told D airily, based on absolutely nothing apart from wanting it to be so – he’s much more pragmatic than I and needed some reassurance. Mais oui, il n’y a pas de soucis! The estate agent backed me up. The source had been running for at least the last four hundred years what could go wrong?
Well I can report everything and nothing!
In truth for the first decade of being here the water has been steady(ish) and reliable.
We bought the house, sent the water off to be tested and the results came back - perfectly drinkable and more. I lived for several years in the Masai Mara, Kenya where we pumped our water up from below ground. More often than not the water was brown and heavy with minerals, it required a lot of filtration to turn it into something palatable. I got used to the metallic tang, but there was no way our guests would drink it. Not so here - the water is in perfect balance, a delicious alchemy of liquid molecules, clear and unadulterated.
Now to find the most effective way of storing and getting the water to the house. Much thought and discussion with our local paysagiste ensued. A water tank was added, installed in the forest and the original stone basin for storing water became the overflow. The outlet was a simple pipe leading from the stone basin, which allowed any excess water to flow off down the hill. I added some hollowed out logs, and a few stones, to hide the pipes. Soon pea-green clumps of velvety moss settled into the damp nooks and stone crevices, festooned with ivy sprinkles. Et voilà our own natural water feature!
Winter time there was a ceaseless flow, merrily trilling away, a melodious, constant. Sometimes during the stillest and sharpest of nights the water froze and we would wake to a miniature watery wonderland of glacial spires and minarets. All was well.
In the summer, even when there were no drought alerts in the region, the flow turned to a trickle and we adapted accordingly. The garden was no longer watered. The cars remained dusty. Showers were to the point. Some years right at the end of August when the hills and garden became sandpaper dry, the overflow ceased. The silence pronounced. Our eyes remained skyward waiting for the rains to arrive to replenish la nappe d’eau (the water table) and soothe the dried out landscape.
We were not overly concerned, we quickly got used to the seemingly predictable weather patterns of very wet autumns and rain again in the spring. We experienced the meteorological phenomenon - “Les Episodes Cévenols” created when the warm, humid Mediterranean air meets the cold air from the Cévenol mountains and with the barrier of the hills the clouds form and reform. And it rains and rains. Dry rivers become torrents of swift flowing water. In 2014, extreme precipitation produced more than 300mm in one day (the highest since 1950). A local village that sits between two calm rivers was devastated, houses flooded and some swept away! Bridges were smashed, enormous, trees uprooted.
We were ever more grateful on those days that we live on a hill and not riverside. When we drove down to town the hillside had turned aquatic – a torrential mêlée of waterfalls, and streams, ferns like emerald sea anemones. A symphony of rushing, unrestrained water.
But over the last three years things have changed.
Our summers have become hotter than ever before, each year records are broken. The heat is intense and prolonged. Last summer our thermometer showed 39.5 even at at 500m. Climate-change summers undoubtedly. The garden languished, trees and shrubs died. I flirt with the idea of letting the garden re-wild itself but had visions of a tangle of brambles rampaging around the house and a home with no flowers feels untenable. Perhaps we could create one that was more suited to dry, hot climate?
With news of forest fires yet again sweeping across the Mediterranean, I feel vulnerable with our backs to the chestnut forest. During another sleepless night of oppressive heat I make a list of things to take from the house in case we needed to leave in a hurry. We receive an order from the Mairie to ensure all woodland and brush is kept at least 50m away from the house. Autumn and the hills are alive with the sound of chainsaws…
Again the overflow stops running during August and we wait for the autumn rains to replenish. But the rainstorms are few and far between. Some weeks with see heavy rain forecast but it’s elusive and emerges as a disappointing drizzle. December approaches and still the overflow is dry! D checks our system for blockages and does find a tiny leak in the system. Praise be, the lack of flow is not just down to the continuing drought. Finally we have some fortuitous rain, not a lot but enough and just in time for family visiting over the Christmas period.
Articles abound in the local press about the prospect of another year of droughts and low water tables. We decide to invest in another water storage tank. Meanwhile, although nowhere near the confident gushing that we are used to at this time of the year, there is a small excess of water trickling down the hill. In which case a bath is not out the question…
Candles are lit and the bathroom infused with heady orange blossom. I run a bath and immerse myself. Is it all it’s cracked up to be? Hell yes! I let go and indulge in the moment, limbs become weightless, my mind drifts. Sublime.
I emerge a new woman. Daughter number two is waiting in the wings to jump in. The tin bath is excellent at keeping the water hot allowing for those that want to take a turn.
A bath has never felt more luxurious. I have a feeling they will be few and far between this year, as another dry season looms. But we are a little more prepared, more adjusted to what feels like the new ‘norm’. And like many things over the last couple of years, our sights have shifted. Some years there may be an abundance, some years not, it is certainly less predictable. Wet or dry, we have stopped taking our water source for granted and gladly make the most of what we have.
Our magical bath
