It should have been a picnic. It was meant to be a picnic, on the lawn; a 4th of July Picnic, but 2 days early. You see, my friend, Crystal, is an American. She's married to an Englishman, has lived here for 6 years and loves it, but she's American to the tips of her toes.
Crystal and her husband have a very nice, very unusual bungalow in a deep hollow quite close to the centre of the village. It's a unique building that he designed himself, he's an architect, with lots of windows looking out over a lovely lawned garden that borders the tree-lined stream. She had planned games like boules and lawn-table-tennis for the more energetic and guests were asked to bring along their picnic chairs, if possible. About 50 people were invited and Crystal had slaved for days in her kitchen preparing mountains of delicious, American food.
I've been to 4th of July picnics before. Years ago we lived among USAF personnel in Whitby and I know what generous hosts the Americans are and how much they like to entertain. I was really looking forward to sitting on the lawn eating hot dogs and spiced ribs, chilli and salads and drinking root beer and Californian wine. The weather was glorious, cloudless blue sky and hot sun. It would be perfect.
As I got into my car, I noticed the sky was turning black, over in the direction of Manchester Airport. It was still sunny in Lymm, though, maybe it would pass us by. I set off on the 5 minute journey. After 3 minutes the sun was blacked out and the first splashes of rain hit the windscreen. One minute later I switched the wipers to double speed as I negotiated the treacherous, bendy road by the golf course. It was getting even worse and I could hardly see. I went up the hill and rounded the corner to the road where Crystal lives and descended towards her house in the bottom of the hollow. It was so bad by now that I couldn't make out her drive-way but I stopped by a familiar tree.
As soon as I stopped the car a waterfall hit the back of my neck; the sun-roof was open. I shut it, quickly, and sat tight. The world outside my car resembled the interior of an operating car-wash, minus the rollers. I was enclosed in a capsule, like a bathosphere in a thundering sea. A car passed by, slowly, on the other side of the road sending a wash of muddy water over the roof of mine. In the seconds that my window was clear I looked at the puddle I was parked in. It was almost level with the car door. I drove a few yards up the hill, out of the flood. Was the rain easing a little? Yes, I could see a few yards with the wipers on. I decided to drive home, for the duration, and see how the weather would continue. Slowly, cautiously, I made my way home. My progress was similar to the QE2, leaving a huge wake behind me as every road in the village was under feet of water. The rain was still pelting and thunder roared overhead but I aquaplaned my way home to my soggy house and garden.
When , eventually, I was able to get out of the car and into the house I phoned Crystal. ''It's OK'', she said. ''Most of the guests got here and Granville's been out in his waders for an hour and cleared the floods off the front of the house. It didn't come in under the door and the garage is drying out''. He had, I discovered later, stripped to his underpants before donning the waders. As he's 6'3 and as thin as a lath I was sorry I missed that.
So, ever the intrepid one, I set out once more. The rain had now stopped and the sun was out again. I reached the bungalow and parked where I had been before. The flood was gone, heaven only knew where, though I suspect the stream was now several feet higher up its banks. The trees on the drive gave me a good soaking as they shed the residue of raindrops but my feet remained dry.
We guests mingled in Crystal's glass-walled sitting room, the octagonal dining-room, the verandah and even the kitchen. Gradually the lawn dried enough for the odd game of boules and garden chairs began to spread out from the verandah on to the grass. Food flowed from the kitchen in a never-ending stream and Crystal bustled around, happy as a little American sand-boy.
She comes from Philadelphia and she's also lived in rural Pennsylvania. She's used to twisters and tornados and all the vagaries of the Stateside climate but I bet this is one 4th of July Picnic she won't forget in a hurry. I know I won't.
Crystal and her husband have a very nice, very unusual bungalow in a deep hollow quite close to the centre of the village. It's a unique building that he designed himself, he's an architect, with lots of windows looking out over a lovely lawned garden that borders the tree-lined stream. She had planned games like boules and lawn-table-tennis for the more energetic and guests were asked to bring along their picnic chairs, if possible. About 50 people were invited and Crystal had slaved for days in her kitchen preparing mountains of delicious, American food.
I've been to 4th of July picnics before. Years ago we lived among USAF personnel in Whitby and I know what generous hosts the Americans are and how much they like to entertain. I was really looking forward to sitting on the lawn eating hot dogs and spiced ribs, chilli and salads and drinking root beer and Californian wine. The weather was glorious, cloudless blue sky and hot sun. It would be perfect.
As I got into my car, I noticed the sky was turning black, over in the direction of Manchester Airport. It was still sunny in Lymm, though, maybe it would pass us by. I set off on the 5 minute journey. After 3 minutes the sun was blacked out and the first splashes of rain hit the windscreen. One minute later I switched the wipers to double speed as I negotiated the treacherous, bendy road by the golf course. It was getting even worse and I could hardly see. I went up the hill and rounded the corner to the road where Crystal lives and descended towards her house in the bottom of the hollow. It was so bad by now that I couldn't make out her drive-way but I stopped by a familiar tree.
As soon as I stopped the car a waterfall hit the back of my neck; the sun-roof was open. I shut it, quickly, and sat tight. The world outside my car resembled the interior of an operating car-wash, minus the rollers. I was enclosed in a capsule, like a bathosphere in a thundering sea. A car passed by, slowly, on the other side of the road sending a wash of muddy water over the roof of mine. In the seconds that my window was clear I looked at the puddle I was parked in. It was almost level with the car door. I drove a few yards up the hill, out of the flood. Was the rain easing a little? Yes, I could see a few yards with the wipers on. I decided to drive home, for the duration, and see how the weather would continue. Slowly, cautiously, I made my way home. My progress was similar to the QE2, leaving a huge wake behind me as every road in the village was under feet of water. The rain was still pelting and thunder roared overhead but I aquaplaned my way home to my soggy house and garden.
When , eventually, I was able to get out of the car and into the house I phoned Crystal. ''It's OK'', she said. ''Most of the guests got here and Granville's been out in his waders for an hour and cleared the floods off the front of the house. It didn't come in under the door and the garage is drying out''. He had, I discovered later, stripped to his underpants before donning the waders. As he's 6'3 and as thin as a lath I was sorry I missed that.
So, ever the intrepid one, I set out once more. The rain had now stopped and the sun was out again. I reached the bungalow and parked where I had been before. The flood was gone, heaven only knew where, though I suspect the stream was now several feet higher up its banks. The trees on the drive gave me a good soaking as they shed the residue of raindrops but my feet remained dry.
We guests mingled in Crystal's glass-walled sitting room, the octagonal dining-room, the verandah and even the kitchen. Gradually the lawn dried enough for the odd game of boules and garden chairs began to spread out from the verandah on to the grass. Food flowed from the kitchen in a never-ending stream and Crystal bustled around, happy as a little American sand-boy.
She comes from Philadelphia and she's also lived in rural Pennsylvania. She's used to twisters and tornados and all the vagaries of the Stateside climate but I bet this is one 4th of July Picnic she won't forget in a hurry. I know I won't.