Wednesday, 8th November 2000, West Yorkshire
||WATER FINDS ITS OWN WAY THROUGH and the floods have left an erosion gulley, over a foot deep in places, down the middle of the woodland track. Rushing water has tunneled under patches of tarmac in the parking area, undermining the surface so that the blacktop cracks up and gets added to the rubble.
A silent, milky pool has formed in the bottom of the old quarry. I've always thought that this quiet corner of the wood, where Ash saplings grow amongst the mossy boulders of a rock fall, has a mysterious atmosphere, but in the quiet of dusk it looks like a scene from Arthurian legend. It wouldn't be surprising if a hand thrust up from the opaque waters brandishing Excalibur.
As even the dim light in this shady quarry fades fast I feel a shiver run down my spine. I make my way out of the wood along a stone causeway which is awash because the stream is partially blocked by a fallen ash log which has been dumped ten yards further downstream during the flood.
This day last year