It never rains

You can't really live in a house without any water, so when our well dried up our future at the Smithy suddenly became uncertain. With no guarantee we could locate a reliable supply within our boundaries, we spent three long nervous weeks waiting to find out if a drilling rig would strike gold.

When we purchased the Smithy, it came with a private water supply from an old well and this supply had served the property for generations, apparently without issue. That was of course until we turned up. Within a few months of signing the deeds, the kitchen tap coughed up its last splutter of sediment rich sludge and the well ran dry. A combination of the driest spring since records began and the fact the Smithy was now inhabited by twice as many people than it had normally been used to proved too much for the ancient supply to handle. I had seen it coming for a while, as the water had been becoming increasingly tainted, to the point I was now the only person brave enough to bath in it. Admittedly, even I was preferring to opt for a shower as I started to feel dirtier coming out of the bath than when I got in. Although the state of the water was becoming a bit of a family joke, this was masking the stark underlying reality that the only alternative option was to have a borehole drilled at a cost of over £10,000. Needless to say, the stress of the well becoming unviable has been an ever-present fixture in my thoughts, and joined the growing to do list that between them, the Smithy, Gwalia and Glandwyryd were amassing (see The chronicles of Gwalia). However, I never anticipated the issue would rear its head so soon and so suddenly, and at a time when so much was going on - as they say, it never rains but it pours. My fears finally came to fruition on the morning I had planned the relaxing hill walk with Josselin that I covered in the previous post Father and daughter time. I had purposely set this day aside to focus on family, and take a break from the numerous jobs, stresses and distractions. However, I had spent the crack of dawn that day precariously dangling into a well shaft, coming to terms with the fact we now had no water and somehow needed to find ten grand. It took a lot of determination to suppress this worry and ensure it did not taint this precious interlude, but I would be lying if I said the issue didn’t pop into my frazzled brain every now and again as we ascended Goblin Mountain, and it’s amazing how many times you use the word “well” in a conversation.

Anyway, after several days without water, a nerve-racking bank loan application, and numerous frantic telephone calls, I finally arranged for a chap from a drilling company to visit the Smithy and survey the land. I was not concerned, as on their website they claimed to be able to drill in any terrain and even in the smallest of locations, with no challenge being too difficult. I confidently led him to the 4-acre expanse behind the house and raised my hands as if to gesture endless options. I also smugly pointed out the gated access from the road, just to be sure all angles were covered. “We can’t drill here” he said, just as I was about to ask when he could start. Perplexed, I reminded him of his websites claims. “Oh no” he replied, “the vehicles capable of this can only drill 100 feet or so, and the rock in this area requires at least a 300-foot hole, and that sized rig will never get up here”. On hearing this a wave of panic rushed over me as I suddenly grasped the enormity of my predicament – a worthless house with no water, financial ruin, the dream in tatters, marriage breakdown, a return to alcoholism - and I momentarily lost contact with reality. Luckily, I came back, and my episode must have been swift as the gentleman from the well company was still staring at me waiting for a response. Remembering the bit on the website that mentioned small spaces, I quickly composed myself and took him to the parking area at the other side of the house. I burned a hole in the back of his head with my bloodshot eyes as he paced around for a while surveying the tiny plot. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, he looked up at me and said “yes, this will be fine”. I could have thrown my arms around him and burst into tears, but instead calmly quivered “when can you start, we’re in no rush”.

The meeting ended with a nice bit of confusion, thanks to my long-standing inability to work out what “a week on” means. After he suggested a start date of “a week on Monday”, I did my usual check that he did not mean THIS Monday, but the Monday after. He looked confused, as people always do when I say this, and replied, “no its THIS Monday, as in the Monday after next”. Having years of experience with this conversation, I opted to roughly calculate the approximate date to ensure we were talking about the same Monday and nip the escalating confusion in the bud. Unfortunately, this just seemed to confuse things further as he pulled out his diary and said, “no that’s a Sunday”. After a very awkward silence where we both didn't seem to know what to say next, he referred back to his diary and gave me the definite date, to which I replied “excellent, I will see you a week on Monday then”. As it happens, this ridiculous conversation turned out to be pointless, as he ended up being unable to meet this commitment anyway, and eventually turned up two weeks on Tuesday - that’s not next Tuesday, or the following Tuesday, but the Tuesday after that. I think. This delay, however, turned out to be welcomed, as in the interim period I was tasked with the job of erecting an insulated shed for the UV treatment system, pump and the water expansion tank, rigging this up with a 20 amp isolation box and two 13 amp plugs and digging a trench to locate the underground well supply pipe and reconnect this to the intended borehole outlet pipe. Luckily, I had recently purchased loads of timber for a wood store, so was well placed to modify my plans and incorporate the borehole equipment, and I knew a good electrician from the work he had done at Gwalia who agreed to assist with the electrical side of things. I now had, side by side, a wood store for fire, and a treatment store for water - albeit awaiting its insulated doors!

The next 3 weeks taught me the value of water. Like every utility, you take water for granted, using countless litres of the stuff without a second thought. This ignorance changes dramatically when you have to lug the stuff around in large heavy containers, only to pour most of it down the toilet. Finally, the big day arrived, and the previous evening I spent some time ensuring the site was clear in preparation for the drilling rig. I had been told in no uncertain terms to ensure the space was clutter free as every inch was needed. Just as I had finished moving the cars, strimming the grass, relocating the rubble and shifting all the tools, Dan the friendly gardener from up the road pulled up with a trailer load of wood chips. As he enthusiastically jumped out with a shovel in his hand I recalled the conversation I had with him about two months ago, when I asked if he would mind dumping any spare wood chippings on the drive so I could use it for paths on the market garden. I could hardly decline the favour, so reluctantly grabbed a shovel and got stuck in. Luckily, the large mountain of freshly shredded conifers was not mentioned by the drilling company when they turned up the following day, although they must have wondered what it was doing there as they tried to avoid it with a ten ton truck. The next 3 days involved a nervous wait as the men drilled, vibrating the ground as the colossal machine punched its way ever deeper in search of water. The process threw up so much dust it made the house look like it had become a victim of a nearby erupting volcano.

Eventually, after around 350 feet, water was struck, sending a river of grey sludge down the parched road. It is an understatement to say I was relieved and I would have made a Texan oil tycoon look muted. As I waved the large drilling rig and its workforce off, the area fell silent again and all that was left was a large mound of silt, a vast covering of slimy sludge and an ugly blue pipe sticking out the ground - but at least we found water and our future here was secured. The final stage is to connect this up with the pump, UV light and the main supply pipe and I have been told the chap will come and do this "a week tomorrow". I think he meant next Thursday, but didn't bother checking.