watching the river rise

Lots of rain, melting snow and now this big fat mighty river has burst its banks. Not the usual little spill-over sloshing along the promenade. 

This time, a fast moving mass of slate grey water pushing its way foreward towards the sea and sideways into fields and gardens, on the tow paths, up the roads and ferry ramps. No barges, no boats, no ferries. Just a handful of confused and giddy ducks swimming on the edges between the tops of trees that normally line the promenade. The cafes and ferry stations and boating clubs are submerged, the odd roof peaking out.

Some benches are bobbing on top, anchored to the ground with their chainlink locks, the odd bin floats by, together with a mixed bag of flotsam: branches, plastic bags, bottles, brown bundles of muck.

All day people are walking down to the edge of the water to take a look. The locals and long term blow-ins, the newbies and the expats, all spellbound by this massive force of water.

Flood tourism, says R and takes a picture.