Every drop of water drawn from the taps this summer I have hauled into place.
I fill the bowser from the tap at the barn, pull it round to the basement at the west end of the bunkhouse, hook up to the alkythene pipe inserted into a hole drilled in the water tank enclosure and let it fill the system by gravity.
So every cup of tea, every toilet flush, hair/hand wash was made possible. Every shower prolonged pleasurably – was paid for in effort.
Every pot filled, garment washed, crock cleaned – was, in a sense, my artefact.
A pain in the water butt, in truth.
When the borehole pump failed first – I pulled it out for maintenance.
When the time came to replace it in the well with electrical connections reassembled, I tested it before dropping it down the 200ft shaft.
It didn’t work –
well, it worked if I stood in the dark basement like a cave-dwelling caryatid with my finger glued to it,
but it didn’t flow at the command of the float switch as it should.
So I run the quad up to the yard several times a day to handcraft the precious resource.
It has become a duty, like feeding the cattle in winter – a chore, literally, but one with a similar gift of routine. When I drive the quad round in the morning I take the measure of the day ahead, and, at night, take stock. While waiting on the twenty minute fill, I look for eggs, watch the ducklings, chop thistles and dockans, pull ragwort.
The Nog comes with me, joins the routine, noses through the silage pastures for pheasants, hares and partridge, also hunts out any hen’s eggs available for breakfast-(his breakfast)- races the quad, eats the chicken feed.
So this improvisation, born from failure and incomprehension,
has become embedded, a part of my day, of me
like a limp.
I must address this inertia.
Each day I aim by elimination to do some one thing to arrive closer to understanding the fault
One by one I have broken the electrical connections, and remade them, wired the pump to the switch in the basement, connected the dry run probe.
I suffer a teasing hiatus after clicking the trip switch – a moment of imminence- and then the light-
always red: always the stop light.
I had filled the pump with water when testing, but today I insert the heavy cylinder into the aperture used to fill the upper tank and submerge it – just in case there is some requirement for the pump casing to be immersed.
Flick the switch,
wait a half breath for the light to come on-
And this evening the heather has broken into full flower on the south facing slopes.