October 27th – Sheffield Independant
The Terrible Floods
Great loss of Life
Trains thrown down embankments
23 persons in South Yorkshire injured
“Denaby Main,” remarked a London writer when he gave a description of the district, “has green fields and woods all around; all it lacks is water.” We wish he could see it now. There is water in abundance today between the line and the colliery. There is no longer the green meadows, level as a table, with the fat kine lazily feeding all the drowsy afternoon. Where there was stable land is now the unstable water, broken at intervals by bare trees, which looked gaunt and spectral in the dying daylight. The drive land has become a veritable lake country. Even on the other side, where the sluggish river ordinarily seems as if it would go to sleep, where one might any day be tempted to say,
Quiet flows the stream for ever
bank field o´er flowing never
there is no telling where land and water have their beginning or end.
For the time being the latter is master, and where the waves are gone they have left such a legacy of shingle and sand as most marked the invasion for many a day. A hurried glance at Conisbrough, told the same story. The houses on the hill were safe; but everything in the valley was underwater. If our train left the rails we would topple over into one of a series of small lakes formed by the overflow. Timber is floating about in all directions; trees sure there branches above the waters; broken barrels have entangled themselves at the side, or “bob” open down in the centre like buoys put down to warn craft of perilous places.
On the level land of the country we have traversed the people have become amphibious. Logs have been hastily thrown together, tied with ropes, and launched. Occasionally old gates and doors have been thrown upon the waters. Sometimes they made the journey with their adventurous freight; more frequently. The logs “parted” and the “crew” went overboard.
In one case three men ventured their persons on an old gates, with the door added. They pushed towards an apparent prize, which turned out a blank, and in the return journey the gate and door dissolved partnership, and the craftsman went down together. They were up to the waist, but came out safely, after much trouble with the sinking clay, which sees their boots and almost fastened them to the bottom.
But why need I linger at Conisborough for the special artists – have they not been here before me, with their pots of red paint and their very biggest brushes?