On day 7, we cycled through an abandoned hamlet: Careles. From the history, I read that about a hundred years ago, a shepherding family moved into the buildings there. The buildings and location provided everything they needed; but, the wooden slated roof tiles leaked persistently in the rain. Over their first winter there, it rained a lot, and food, bedding and clothing were damaged. One of the shepherds, Pierre, was especially discontent. He called a meeting for the community to discuss what they might do. Pierre, his brothers and families argued into the evening. No-one had an answer. As tempers flared, a travelling stranger arrived seeking shelter for the night. He listened to the sheepherders discussions, and offered to supply corrugated iron to re-clad the rooves. It was expensive but everyone agreed the investment to be worth it.
The following spring, a lorry slowly made its way up the valley, swaggering under the weight of the new iron sheets. The villagers set to work, pulling away the old wooden tiles and nailing the iron onto the roofs. It was hard work, but they worked diligently, and within a few days the little cottages appeared watertight. But it was also a dry year, and no rain fell until mid September. When it arrived, it was no light shower but a brewing and angry storm. At first the rain fell onto the corrugated sheeting like sand on a snare drum. Pierre and the others glanced up at their handiwork and smiled. But then the wind whistled louder down the valley it brought heavier rain. The weighty drops hit the sheeting like bullets. Bang. Bang. Bang. The wind began to scream across the corrugated curves, and the rain turned to hail. With eye-splitting cracks, each icy pellet rapped down hard onto the roofs. Pierre cupped his hands over his ears but he could not escape the noise. Bang. Bang. Bang. For hours, the unbearable smashing continued, hitting the shepherds ears like a Gatling gun. Gradually their eyes began to glaze over…
With a jolt, Pierre screeched back his chair from the table and swiftly rose. He strode to the door, and stepped into the storm. Reaching up to the roof, he started to claw and tear the sheeting with his bare hands. The others quickly followed, and gradually the whole community were outside, with unfocused eyes, feverishly pulling and ripping at the corrugated iron. Torrential rain drenched the shepherds, plastering their hair to their faces, while curled ribbons of iron cut into their flesh, lacerating their hands, arms and faces. The shepherds did not flinch, feasting manically on a desperate urge to strip the corrugated iron sheeting. Eventually, one by one, they fell exhausted into the muddy ground, the blood from their bodies draining into the rivulets of storm water flowing down the valley.
Morning opened to clear skies, and gradually a lorry became visible trundling up from the valley.
