Owain sat on the splintered bench outside his stone farmhouse, the thick wool of his old coat doing little to shield him from the damp chill creeping through the valley. The Pennines stretched around him like a crumpled quilt, but where there had once been green pastures and dry-stone walls, there was now a shimmering expanse of water. The flood had crept in slowly, like a thief, taking a little more with every visit. And now, as the early morning mist hovered over the water’s surface, he could see the tops of fence posts poking out like skeletal fingers, the last remnants of his boundaries.
Chewing on a piece of straw—an old habit that had once kept him calm in the face of early frost or a sickly ewe. But today, even that familiar motion failed to settle him. His farm was dying.
The first warning had come two years ago, a letter from the council. It had been full of bureaucratic detachment, talking about “flood risk zones” and “necessary adjustments” for the reservoir expansion. But to Owain, it hadn’t felt real—not until last autumn, when the heavy rains refused to drain, and the low-lying fields started turning into pools.
He’d tried to keep the water at bay for months—piling up stones along the edges of his land, digging trenches to divert the flow. But the valley had its own plans. Each effort felt like trying to hold back the tide with a bucket, a pathetic act of defiance against forces far beyond his control.
Now, the water lapped at the edge of his yard. It had claimed his lower fields first, drowning the pasture where his sheep had grazed for generations. Then it rose higher, swallowing the vegetable patch where his mother used to grow carrots and cabbages. The old barn was half-submerged now, the roof sagging, its timber skeleton groaning against the weight of defeat.
Owain stared at the water, his jaw clenched so tight he could feel the ache radiating up to his temples. The sound of waves—small, lapping ones—reached him. They were soft, almost gentle, but he hated them for their persistence. They were always there, whispering, taunting him.
His thoughts swirled as chaotically as the water before him. He thought of his father, who had worked this farm with hands calloused from decades of labour. He thought of his mother, who had stitched curtains for the farmhouse windows and insisted on keeping the kitchen full of laughter even in the hardest winters. And he thought of himself, young and determined, vowing to keep the land alive, no matter the cost.
What would they think of him now? Would they see him as a failure, someone who couldn’t protect the home they’d built with their blood and sweat? Or would they understand the futility of fighting against progress—or destruction, depending on how you looked at it?
A sharp wind gusted through the valley, rippling the surface of the water and sending a shiver through Owain. He pulled his coat tighter, his fingers trembling. He hated the helplessness more than anything. He was a farmer, someone used to working the land, to shaping it with his hands. But now the land was shaping him, forcing him into a version of himself he didn’t recognize.
His mind turned over grim possibilities. What would happen when the water reached the house? He’d already moved the furniture to the upstairs rooms, but that felt like delaying the inevitable. Would he pack up his truck and leave, abandoning the farm to its watery fate? Or would he stay until the water came through the door, refusing to let go until it pried him loose?
He imagined the farm as it would be in a year or two—a silent ruin beneath the reservoir’s surface. The walls of his home would crumble, the fields would vanish, and the memories tied to this place would dissolve like soil in the flood. The thought made his chest tighten, a heavy, unbearable weight pressing against his ribs.
But another part of him whispered something darker, something he was almost too afraid to acknowledge, maybe it wasn’t just the farm drowning. Maybe it was him, too. Not physically, not yet, but in his spirit. The identity he’d built over decades—the farmer, the caretaker, the son carrying on a legacy—was being eroded with every rising inch of water. What would be left of him when the valley was gone?
The sound of a bird’s cry pulled him from his spiralling thoughts. He looked up to see a heron gliding low over the water, its long legs trailing behind like forgotten threads. It landed on a half-submerged fence post, a solitary silhouette against the grey sky. Owain watched it for a moment, feeling a strange mixture of envy and bitterness. The bird could adapt. It could find another place to call home.
Could he?
He didn’t know the answer. And that uncertainty gnawed at him like a relentless hunger.
For now, all he could do was sit and watch as the waters rose higher, erasing the lines between land and lake, past and future. The valley he had known was already gone, and yet he couldn’t tear himself away from the sight of it slipping further into oblivion.
Owain stayed on the bench, the chill seeping into his bones, the weight of the rising water pressing against his soul.
From a writing prompt on inclement weather