When climate fiction feels real

 

Humanity’s climate emergency no longer lurks in some distant, abstract future. It is encroaching – slowly and unevenly – into our daily lives, politics and psychology.

We are living in a time when yesterday’s dystopias are starting to feel like tomorrow’s headlines, and the Danish TV drama Families Like Ours, which I’ve just finished watching (BBC 4 and iPlayer), could hardly be timelier.

Set in a recognisably near-future world, the series imagines a country that will soon become unliveable due to rising sea levels. 

The nation is forced to evacuate in order to avoid the worst effects of climate collapse – an unsettling premise that turns the tables on our assumptions about migration, power, and privilege.

These are not just speculative ideas for me. Similar themes – a fractured country grappling with inundation, social disintegration and a creeping authoritarianism born of environmental breakdown – are explored in my own forthcoming novel.

Watching Families Like Ours, I felt as though I was viewing an alternative version of my own future world – an unsettling “what if”, unfolding not in an alien realm or distant century but just around the next political and climatic corner.

Drama of denial

What’s particularly powerful – and is also noted in The Guardian’s excellent review – is the drama’s restraint in the midst of crisis.

There are no Hollywood-style disasters, no CGI tsunamis or blazing infernos. The apocalypse arrives in the form of an official government directive urging people to evacuate for their own good.

It’s slow, procedural and quietly bureaucratic – a polite but chilling, “Leave while you still can”. It’s not the bang of destruction but the whimper of compliance.

As the review puts it: “The creeping horror comes from how normal everyone is trying to pretend it all is.”

That line haunted me because in many ways it captures the most terrifying part of our own present: the societal impulse to look away from impending disaster.

Denial – especially around the politics of human-driven climate change – is one of the most potent forces of our age. It manifests not only in outright scepticism, but in the performative optimism of politicians and social media commentators, the greenwashing of corporations and the general inertia of daily life.

We’re encouraged to adapt, to “build back better”, to install air conditioning or move to higher ground – all without seriously confronting the root causes or long-term consequences.

In my upcoming novel Flood Waters Down, I explore how denial calcifies into something darker: a form of authoritarianism cloaked in pragmatism. When people become desperate for security, they often look to ideology, to borders, to technological fixes and political scapegoats.

The regime that emerges in my novel doesn’t rise through a coup. It grows organically, incrementally, from the fertile soil of fear, apathy, and obscene wealth.

That’s the genius of Families Like Ours. It shows how easily we might slide into such a world – not with jackboots and firestorms but via polite emails, official notices and a quietly panicking population.

Climate as character

Another powerful parallel is how the environment itself becomes a kind of character – not a passive backdrop, but an active force that shapes events, relationships and identities.

For the Danish series, the land is turning against its people. It’s no longer safe or reliable, forcing individuals and families to make choices they never imagined – not just about where they live but about who they are.

In this context, Flood Waters Down uses the English Fens as a landscape transformed by flooding into a waterlogged no-man’s-land of shifting loyalties and fragile settlements.

It is at once beautiful and treacherous, steeped in memory and myth, but altered beyond recognition. My characters must navigate not just physical terrain but the moral geography of a broken society.

A question that looms large in both the TV drama and climate fiction like mine is: who gets to stay, and who is forced to go?

In Families Like Ours, the reversal of current refugee and migration narratives is pointed. Suddenly, it is affluent Europeans who must flee. The usual script is flipped, inviting viewers to reconsider the racial, economic, and geopolitical dynamics of climate migration.

By contrast, Flood Waters Down focuses on those who are left behind. Those who remain in the Fens – whether by choice, circumstance or resistance – are seen as dangerous or irrelevant by the centralised regime. The government has moved on. Sovereign individuals are given free rein, exploiting the fears of the wealthy.

The people left behind, ghosted from the national narrative, become the seedbed of something new – an insurgent hope, a counterculture rooted in resilience and memory.

Not all of them are heroes. Some are lost, vengeful, morally compromised. But they refuse to disappear. They refuse to comply with the tidy story of evacuation and erasure.

And maybe that’s what climate fiction, at its best, can offer. Not just warnings but alternatives. Not just despair but a glimpse of the radical imagination we’ll need to survive – and adapt.

Edge of reality

Stories about what the future has in store matter because they help us feel the unfolding crisis – not just understand it intellectually but inhabit it emotionally. What would you do? How would you respond? What would you cling to, and what would you let go of?

Climate fiction is not about predicting the future with accuracy. It’s about preparing ourselves with clarity and courage to meet what materialises. And it may yet prove to be one of our most powerful tools in confronting the climate emergency.

The Danish drama ends not with neat resolution but with the unsettling knowledge that something has irrevocably changed – and that our familiar categories of nation, family, identity and home may no longer apply.

Flood Waters Down concludes too not with triumph but with possibility. With characters who have chosen to fight for a different kind of future, even as the old world sinks beneath the waterline and a new, uncertain one begins to emerge.

The climate emergency is already here. The question is: what stories will we tell about it – and what kind of world will we shape in its wake?

Painting pictures with words

THE window from my hotel room high on the tenth floor offered a truly spectacular view over the city of Lisbon whatever time of day or night.

Awake early, I pulled back the heavy curtains and my eyes were immediately drawn across shadowy trees in the park below to a sinister block of a building with brilliant red warning lights on its roof, flashing in unison every few seconds.

In the half-light before dawn their brightness and intensity was strangely unnerving.

No matter we were close to the landing path for Lisbon airport, it triggered my imagination and helped me complete a short description I had already penned as part of an early chapter in my novel 'Flood Waters Down'.

Tulip Haven’s twin towers, once giant cooling chimneys, still dominated the otherwise featureless landscape for mile upon mile in every direction. During the hours of darkness the building’s angular and functional architecture loomed menacingly, its red warning lights blinking in unison. 

To the casual onlooker their brightness and intensity seemed to convey a strange sense of hidden power, as if from a sinister lighthouse overseeing a forbidden landscape and somehow delivering a subversive message to humanity itself.

So, if you are a budding writer or author, my message is always take ideas from what you see in your everyday environment.

Develop a writer’s eye and jot down some free-flow prose whilst observing your surroundings. You never know where a moment’s inspiration might take you.

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Note: This author is seeking contact with agents or publishers for his first novel Flood Waters Down, a dystopian, futuristic, eco thriller set in the Fens of eastern England, a first draft of which is now complete.

A reviewer of some initial chapters described it as "extremely evocative” with a "poetic and atmospheric writing style" that draws the reader "with a sense of unease and anticipation".

Make contact here: Clive Simpson

England’s forgotten county

Lincolnshire's wild North Sea coast at Sutton on Sea.                   Photo: Clive Simpson

 

England’s second-largest, yet least well-known, county comes under the literary spotlight in a new book full of evocative and often elegiac descriptions of landscape and wildlife, alongside fascinating reflections on the area's history, countryside and people, from prehistory right up to the present day.

 

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IN THE early 1960s my parents relocated from their birth town of Derby (it was only consigned city status in 1977 despite having always had its own cathedral) to start a new life in rural Lincolnshire, the second largest county in England.

I was therefore destined not to grow up in the peaks and valleys of Derbyshire but in the flat Fenlands surrounding the small market town of Spalding, renown at the time for its tulips, sugar beet and potatoes. It is where I attended secondary school and subsequently began my journalistic career on the local newspaper.

So, it is with residential impunity and a little insider knowledge, that I can assert with some authority that the county of Lincolnshire has always had something of a reputation as a political, economic and cultural backwater. By the same token, the propensity of its adult population - at least up to the present time - to vote conservatively in such large numbers was always a bit of a mystery to me.

In the referendum of 2016 it was not hard to predict therefore that such entrenched voting behaviour would culminate with a huge tranche of the county - and most notably the towns of Grimsby, Boston and Spalding - voting to deliver one of the country’s highest collective ‘anti-Europe’ votes.

But the sprawling county, with a surprisingly varied topography allied with an indistinct coastline that barely defines its boundary with the North Sea around The Wash, is so much more than the political summation of its largely ageing and traditional population.

All this, along with Lincolnshire’s unexpected role in defining significant eras of the nation’s history, is brought into sharp focus in the excellent new book ‘Edge of England - Landfall in Lincolnshire’ by Dublin-born novelist and poet Derek Turner. It’s publication by Hurst in the summer of 2022 was as impeccably timed as the content is revealing.

Unsurprisingly, the reader soon learns that after spending two decades exploring and reading about England’s “forgotten county” Turner is now a solid gold Lincolnshire “Yellowbelly” resident himself, keen to pay a long overdue homage to the land of big skies, mega agriculture and an ever-changing way of life.

While much of the book’s prosaic beauty lies in acute observations of time and place, noted in detail on every page via Turner’s poetic turn of phrase and language, the historic importance and influence of the county also comes as a revelation in itself.

Laying out his raison d’etre for his book in the introduction, Turner states that the “proverbial mentions” of Lincolnshire he found during his extensive research were all seemingly “disparaging”, showing the county as “decaying, boorishly rustic”, and even a target of “diabolical ire”.

When asked about Lincolnshire not many, he says, responded with a good word, while others seemed “nonplussed” even to be asked. “The mere word could almost be a conversation killer,” he writes. “Lincolnshire started to look like a continent apart - a large, and largely blank, space, almost islanded by cold sea, great estuaries, soggy wastes, and a filigree of fenny waterways.”

In the book’s opening, Turner defines the county as “an ill-defined, in-between transit zone lazily assumed to have no ‘must-see’ sights and little that was even interesting”. 

He goes on to say the county was “notable chiefly to agronomists and economists as a high-functioning English version of Ukraine, sometimes even called ‘the bread-basket of England’, where steppe-sized harvesters combed squared fields between equally angular chicken sheds. It was a county very hard to comprehend”.

Turner readily describes his book as "amorphous" and his narrative duly wanders amiably through the different regions, building as it does so a fascinating - and no doubt to many readers unexpected - portrait of landscape and place.

Indeed this county-wide tour covers pretty much every quarter, taking the reader from the "huge and muddy maw" of The Wash and the flat, reclaimed fenland of "South Holland" to Lincoln "the City on the Cliff" and the beautiful Wolds, before heading north-east to the Humber and the once great fishing town of Grimsby.

Turner thinks the county is already less distinctive than when he moved there because every day it becomes “a tiny bit more like everywhere else”. There are “more roads, more traffic, more bland homes, and fewer small shops, fewer mouldering old buildings, fewer quiet places, fewer wild animals”.

Lincolnshire, he also observes, has more than its fair share of bungalows with plastic windows, caravan parks, garden centres and chicken farms. “Is it so surprising that so many passing through shake their heads and tap the accelerator?” he asks.

The book is punctuated too with poignant insights and anecdotes, such as: “Lincolnshire people, like people everywhere, have often misused their environment, would probably have exhausted it long ago had they had the means, and must often have resented their lot. But some at least must have loved where they lived, finding a locus for patriotism in the disregarded plain, just as other English see Jerusalem in Barking or Huddersfield.”

As a true convert to an “unfashionable” county, Turner says he first alighted on the prairie-like plains and marshes of Lincolnshire in search of his own “understanding” and, in doing so, discovered a “huge new side to England”.   
                                           
“For all its problems - past, present or projected - Lincolnshire is still a county like no other,” he concludes. “This is an England time half-forgot, where you can still find an unabashed past inside an unpretentious present - and freedom and space on a little offshore island.”

For any potential visitor, armchair traveller or existing resident, whether born and bred in the county or a relative newcomer, this is so much more than a mere guidebook or informative travelogue.

Lincolnshire’s understated chronicles, unfashionable towns and undervalued countryside conceal fascinating stories, as well as unique landscapes - its Wolds are lonely and beautiful, its towns characterful, and its marshlands and dynamic coast metaphors for constant change.

Turner has produced a hauntingly beautiful and honest lament to a rural existence threatened by encroaching modernity, materialism and standardisation as well as the accumulating effects of climate change. If ever a county deserved a book all of its own then it must be the oft overlooked one of Lincolnshire. 

 

 

 

 

 

Editor's note: This review was written by Clive Simpson for the Central Bylines website and published under the title 'Testament to Lincolnshire' in January 2023.

'Edge of England - Landfall in Lincolnshire’ was published by Hurst in 2022, ISBN: 9781787386983. 

Purchase from your local independent bookshop!

Ship of the Fens

THERE are times when embarking on a journey or overnight stay one is lucky enough to come across not one but several unexpected gems which combine to make such a visit to a new place so much more enjoyable and worthwhile.

A recent trip to Ely in the heart of the Cambridgeshire Fens proved one such occasion. This ancient Fenland outpost, founded on a lump of conglomerate rock rising incongruously above the surrounding flat land is, of course, most famous for its almighty and imposing cathedral.

Mindful of the notional nature of a fleeting visit and our proximity at the time to the town of Stamford in Lincolnshire, it seemed that a cross-country train would be the ideal point from which to commence this mini-vacation. We alighted from the gently curving platform at Stamford’s neatly styled stone-built railway station and were soon rattling our way towards Peterborough alongside the main East Coast line which runs between London and Edinburgh.

Peterborough, one of the country’s fastest growing cities, straddles flat fen countryside to the east, while its western reaches extend into the pleasant and picturesque rolling landscape of the Nene valley. A junction of styles and ambitions, the city often feels like a contradiction - a dual-personality crossover of ancient and new, still defending its ancient coaching past as a stopover on the old Great North Road while also being home for modern-day commuters who flit backwards and forwards to the capital by high speed train.

After a brief stop at the newly re-modelled station our Stansted-bound train splits off on a spur to the east and is soon trundling across a flat, diminutive and featureless countryside. The monotonous mono-culture fields that characterise this region and seem to reach as far as the sky, are punctuated by extensive drainage systems with their horizon-defining banks and lone, singular roads appearing from nowhere to intersect the railway.

This late September morning was overcast and grey, offering an indistinct backdrop for the intense arable farming, the murky appearance of which was compounded by greasy and dirst smeared train windows. Soon the line passed through the town of March, which was once the county town of the Isle of Ely until the latter ceased to exist by government decree in 1965. Just a few minutes later the distant cathedral of Ely looms on the closing horizon like some giant alien artefact.

Our short journey through big skies across a bereft landscape has been as stale as the air on this cramped and fusty train that plies its way daily, back and forth between the city of Birmingham and Stansted airport. The sun extends a gentile welcome as the coaches slow into Ely’s business-like station which, with its multiple platforms, is a busy cross-country junction linking Norwich, Cambridge, Peterborough and Birmingham with London.

So what of the gem-like discoveries? Well, first and for such a small place, there is much within Ely that could easily fit the category, not least the stunning architecture of the cathedral itself.

But for now, we are seeking out something on a smaller scale that might otherwise slip by unnoticed. Topping & Company is a suitably fitting name for any high street shop and once inside you can see why the crime author Alexander McCall Smith described it as “the best bookshop in the world”.

For the book lover or casual shopper it is three floors of literary and tactile delight, where serious browsers are afforded complementary coffee, served from a cafetiere in china cups all set on a neat wooden tray.

Beside the second floor window was a small wooden table and chairs where one can sip coffee and repose in literary paradise, surrounded by the smell of book print and with a tantalising view across the street to the cathedral spires and ramparts. There is no sterility here - Toppings is a treasure.

If this is more than a fleeting, day-time visit there ise plenty of overnight accommodation to choose from and nowhere is a more welcoming option than "Peacock’s Tearoom and Fine B&B", just a stone’s throw from the River Ouse and its boating community.

As the name helpfully suggests, this is a traditional English tearoom - tasteful, sumptuous and quirky, with a hint of French eccentricity, all of which makes it popular with locals and visitors alike.

Peacocks is run by the charming George Peacock, a criminal defence lawyer in another life, and his  wife Rachel. More recently they converted the upstairs of the two joined up 1800s cottages into a couple of delightful bed and breakfast suites, each with its own private sitting room, separate bedroom and pleasant facilities.

Peacocks exudes character and charm - overflowing book cases, comfortable old chairs, antique furniture and a restored market trolley doubling as a coffee table. This really is English bed and breakfast as it should be.

Pick the day of your visit to Ely wisely and you can also enjoy the city’s lively, traditional market on Thursdays and Saturdays, along with eclectic craft, flower and food stalls on occasional Sundays through the year.

On non-market days, however, the large, block-paved square is rather featureless and seems surplus to requirements - bland, unimaginative modernity contrasting starkly with the magnificent stonework and intrinsic creativity of the city’s cathedral - a true ‘Ship of the Fens’ dating back to 672 AD when St Etheldreda first built an Abbey Church on the site.

Words and photos: Clive Simpson

Farmers fight flood threat

High tide for the newly formed Wash Frontagers' Group

Vast swaths of the Fens in eastern England could be catastrophically flooded by the next North Sea surge if nothing is done to shore up sea defences.

Much of the country’s prime arable land around the Wash is below sea level and farmers say that more than 80 miles of neglected sea defences need urgent attention.

The £2.3bn spend confirmed by the government for flood projects around the country this week earmarks nothing for raising defences across one of the country’s most at risk areas.

Farmers of land around the Wash marked the first anniversary of last December’s tidal surge with the formation of the Wash Frontagers' Group (WFG) and an urgent call to action.

They are concerned that the region’s farming and food production industry - worth an estimated £3bn to the UK economy - would be fatally damaged if sea walls are breached.

           

Stafford Proctor, who farms at Long Sutton and is WFG chairman, says the Wash sea defences protect some of the country’s most productive farmland.

And he described last winter's floods across the Somerset Levels as being like "a drop in the ocean" compared to what could happen in the Fens.

"Last year's tidal surge showed just how vulnerable our land, homes, businesses and the whole area is to sea water inundation,” he says.

“In Boston alone, 700 homes and businesses were affected. Just think what the effect of a massive inundation would be on the economy of the whole Fen region. It would be devastating.”

           

Recent figures show that behind the protective seawalls there are 365,261 hectares of farm land, more than 80 per cent of which is classified as at risk of flooding.

The region, which includes South Lincolnshire and parts of Cambridgeshire and Norfolk, is known as the Fens Strategic Area and is home to around 655,000 people spread across remote rural communities in towns and villages.

“We were very close a catastrophe across this area and we don't want people to revert back to the status quo as though nothing had happened,” says Proctor.

Stafford Proctor - WFG chairman

According to the National Farmers’ Union (NFU) county adviser for South Lincolnshire, Simon Fisher, raising the sea defences is not just about protecting the future for farmland.

“It includes everything else that makes life tick - people, communities, towns, industry, agriculture, environment, utilities, energy generation and transport infrastructure,” he says.

“A huge amount of fresh produced is produced from South Lincolnshire and the financial contribution this county makes to the economic well-being of this country is worth billions of pounds.

“If we look at the true value of local agriculture and its upward supply chain, it is £3 billion plus and supports in excess of 60,000 jobs in the Fens.

“We need to protect the land and businesses surrounding the Wash and find the funding to raise the sea defences that so many people depend on.

“If you had a major sea inundation around here, no matter how well defended the towns of Boston, Kings Lynn, Wisbech and Spalding are, they are going to be cut off and sat in the middle of a giant pond.”

WFG members (from left): Nicola Currie, Simon Fisher, Simeon Disley, Stafford Proctor, Gavin Lane

Fisher is also dismissive of the concept of ‘managed retreat’, a suggestion put forward by some wildlife organisations, including the RSPB and Lincolnshire Wildlife Trust.

“There are some very good examples of tiny bits of land being left to the sea and that is probably perfectly feasible,” he says.

“But when you are talking of the Fenland area as a whole you'd be heading inland to Peterborough before you get to a point where it wouldn't flood anymore.”

Proctor is sceptical too. “The argument for managed retreat is creating more ‘green’ areas to try and dissipate the waves - but if anyone was down here last year they would have seen there weren't any waves.

“It was like a silent invasion,” he recalls. “The water just came up flat and got higher and higher. No amount of green marsh will protect you against that.”

Negligible sea bank maintenance work on this part of the coast has been carried out since the mid-1908s and WGF estimates the cost to fix the most needy parts of the sea banks would stretch to around £100 million.

“Compared to what is at stake everyone says this makes a lot of sense,” adds Proctor, who farms 2000 acres of Crown Estate land.

“But in order to do something we need public support and funding - the whole point of what we are trying to do is to raise awareness of the need to do something urgently.”

Country Landowners Association (CLA) eastern regional director, Nicola Currie, believes the WGF will only succeed if it garners support from the Environment Agency and Natural England.

“Under the current cost benefit system, farm land and rural areas miss out because government funding for flood and coastal defences is prioritised for schemes that protect people and property,” she says.

Defra minister Dan Rogerson has indicated his support for the WFG project andsuggests that up to 25 per cent more schemes for coastal defence work could go ahead through partnership funding than if costs were met by central government alone.

“There are real challenges to raising funds locally, which is why the CLA is calling on the Environment Agency and Natural England to be fully supportive of this innovative group,” adds Currie.

“If we continue to do nothing eventually we are going to have a major disaster - we just can't keep carrying on having nemesis like this.

“The only solution is a stitch in time - we have to keep going on sea flood defence and this is why we are calling upon government to help both financially and with changes to legislation to make it easier to get this work done.”

Climate change and rising sea levels mean that storm surges are expected to become more frequent in years to come.

They occur when a rising area of low pressure takes pressure off the surface of the sea allowing it to ‘bulge’ upwards before being pushed down through the North Sea by strong winds.

During last December’s surge parts of the North Sea reached higher levels than the devastating floods of 1953 but sea wall defences around the Wash area largely kept the water at bay.

A new blue plaque marks the level of last December's storm surge

The WFG chose to launch its campaign this week alongside the giant sluice gates of a tiny settlement called Surfleet Seas End, where water is poured into sea channels to keep farm land from flooding.

Here, the Welland and Deepings Internal Drainage Board has just erected a small plaque several metres above the normal sluice gate water level.

It serves as a stark reminder of how sea water came to within just a few inches of bursting these banks at the height of the storm surge during the night of 5 December last year.
 
Report and photographs by Clive Simpson - please contact for further information