Welsh white water

Grandson Ian is staying for the Borderlines Film Festival and there are still more films to go. When we have only one movie a day (or none at all) we look for diversions. We had planned a drive into wildest Wales, up the Elam Valley past the chain of reservoirs built ambitiously and expensively by the Victorians. But the forecast said yet more rain (and thus more flooding) and this is remote territory to get stuck in. But the morning was bright and optimistic and I thought: Bugger it! Why not?

Which led to an epiphany.

We've done this run before and the roads get narrower and more vestigial. Also, on this occasion, more sodden. But ahead was a touring bus based surprisingly in Ingleton, a settlement in the pretty part of Yorkshire, my home county. The driver was taking things easy, splashing along, and we weren't in a hurry.

Eventually we reached the lowest reservoir and briefly parked. Across the road is a substantial viewing area overlooking the lip of the reservoir wall. A woman coming in the opposite direction warned us, intensely, to take care: the wind had almost blown her over. She wasn't kidding. I was buffeted by hard cushions of wind and the overflow of water roared down 150 metres into a raging white fog. The natural power was palpable, my sense of self shrunk to nothingness.

But here's the epiphany. VR is uncertain on her pins these days but had insisted on coming with me to that violent edge. I held her tight and we stayed only a few seconds, but these were seconds of extreme experience. "It's wonderful," she shouted against the tumult, "I'm glad I came."

A fig for being old.