The Water Supply
[A sorry tale of Exmoor's water supply]

I've always had a notion that swapping our private water supply for the Mains has got to be like swapping an old bike for a Ferrari, but since I read the Wessex Water Board's latest publication, I idd'n so sure. It sounds like they 'ave the same sort of calamaties as us do 'yer on Exmoor, but in a watered down kind of way, if you get's my meanin'. Mind you, not 'avin' Mains water 'ave never made no odds when it comes to sellin' property 'yerabouts, in fact, town folks thinks there's some sort of romantic ring to water from a moorland spring. That's afore they've cottoned on that the local kids don't chant nursery rhymes half as much as home-spun ditties like: "When the weather's warm and dank, you can smell the septic tank". Worse still is when the weather's cold and dank and blowin' and rainin' and you got to take to the hills to search out your romantic moorland spring, armed with a shovel, a pint pot, and a stop watch. The shovel's for general use, the pint pot is to catch the in-flow, and the stop watch is to time one pint. Which is all very well if you'm a bit of a scholar and can do your multiplicational tables to estimate how many gallons per hour is flowin' in - or out if you'm unlucky.

Meanwhile, back at the homestead, Missus is fightin' the kitchen tap and nort's happenin'. Now it could be what the Water Board calls 'sediment', which is a bit of an understatement for the sort of things which us on Exmoor finds stuffed up our taps. If you tickles around a bit with your finger you could be lucky and connect with the stoppage, p'raps a little bundle of curled up worms, or a twelve inch slimey string that was once a fat little frog. If there's fur and tail then 'twas likely to 'ave once been a mouse. Sometimes 'tis anybody's guess. 'Tid'n altogether surprisin' in these circumstances that the Water Board informs us that the taste of water can vary, especially if you've got what they call a 'sensitive palate'. Well, that's somethin' us can do without, though I dare say there's still some old stagers about who can roll a noggin' of Adam's Ale round their gums and tell the difference between the bouquet of a dead sheep upstream or some horse sh** downstream. Old Uncle Percy always sweared that the best water come from our old well 'cos it tasted like gin, but that was more a personal opinion. And back then there wudd'n the water upstairs 'cos he always reckoned 'twan natural for water to travel hupwards. Mind you, he had a point, the presssure in the bathroom's never been exactly forceful. You'd get better coverage from the donkey up the road than the dribble that emerges from our so-called power shower.

Us all knows 'tis vital to conserve water, but I draws the line at buying new cisterns with half flushes when all you got to do is drop a brick in the top. In my old outside privvy, you got to be pretty athletic with the cistern six foot up the wall or you'd commit hari kari on the climb up. 'Tis still everybody' favourite little resting place, even after the tin roof blowed off. Nothing dietary you understand, just one of they old windy Exmoor nights, but somehow it never got built back on again so us hanged up an old black brolly on a nail and sticked a torch with the Farmer's Weekly in a biscuit tin and 'twas business as usual. Well, that is until the next air-lock, which I don't suppose Mains' users suffer from. I recall our old sow diggin' down to the water pipe in the field, vandalisin' the joint, and wallowin' in the resultin' swimmin' pool with all her piglets. Soon's the pipe was re-connected, the air locks started. It was just like the piglets was washed up in the pipes and was 'ammerin' to get out 'til at last there was one final scritch and a great whoosh of slurry out the taps. Nobody minded the colour, people could wash again, bath even, and a Mother could tell her kids to "rin to the toilet dear", instead of "rin down the field behind thik gorse bush".

I suppose, if truth be told, us is all quite thankful for our bit of less-than-crystal-clear spring water. It've equipped us with cast iron innards to drink our way round the world and never likely to be stricken with Montezuma's Revenge. Only snag is nobody who lives 'yerabouts ever seems to want to leave the place.

Must be something' in the water ....................... !

Anon