When the Water Wins

 

Upper River Welland in flood (Feb 2026).                        Photo: Ian Bateman

There is a particular kind of dread that comes not from sudden catastrophe, but from slow acceptance: the point at which something once shocking becomes familiar, then normal, then mere background noise.

In recent weeks, flood warnings have scrolled across our phones, met with only fleeting attention. Roads close. Trains stop. Fields disappear beneath shallow seas. Insurers quietly retreat from whole postcodes. Phrases like “managed retreat” and “once-in-a-century event” lose their meaning through overuse.

Last week, that background noise briefly came into focus with the story of Clydach Terrace in Ynysybwl, South Wales.

The local authority in Rhondda Cynon Taf agreed to spend up to £2.6 million to buy up and demolish 16 homes on a residential terrace that has repeatedly flooded – including during Storm Dennis in 2020, when water inside homes reached almost two metres deep.

The homes, on a floodplain beside the Nant Clydach, were deemed so dangerous that there is no economically viable way to protect them. Natural defences are no longer viable; the risk to life is judged “high”.

Journalists covering the story described this as the first time in the UK that a whole street has been bought out and will be demolished because of climate-linked flood risk: a de facto announcement of the country’s first climate evacuees – though the word itself remains carefully unspoken.

The most frightening thing about climate collapse is not the spectacle of it, but how quickly we absorb it into everyday life.

That sense of quiet inevitability – the feeling that something fundamental has shifted beneath our feet – is what led me to write Flood Waters Down.

I live on the edge of the South Lincolnshire Fens, a landscape that exists only because we forced it into submission. Drained, straightened, regulated, pumped. A triumph of engineering and agricultural efficiency – and a reminder of a very old human habit: believing control to be the same as permanence.

The Fens are flat, exposed and deceptively fragile. They sit mostly at or below sea level, held in place by embankments, lock gates and sluices – and by faith in powerful pump engines that must work perfectly, all the time. As the atmosphere warms and the seas rise, that bargain begins to look increasingly brittle.

Historically, when the water returns to the Fens, it does not do so politely. It spreads. It lingers. It reshapes the land and the people who live on it.

The phrase – the water always wins – became a quiet mantra while I was writing Flood Waters Down. Not as a slogan, but as an observation. Nature does not need to be dramatic to be unstoppable. It only needs time.

So why turn to fiction this time, rather than reportage?

I’ve spent much of my career reporting on complex systems – space, technology, the environment. Good, honest journalism is vital. It tells us what is happening, who is responsible and why it matters.

But it has limits. In the context of climate change it struggles to capture what collapse feels like from the inside. How it alters relationships, priorities, morality. How people adapt not in heroic arcs, but in compromises and retreats. How systems designed to protect us quietly begin to outlive us.

Fiction offers the possibility of stepping beyond the headline and into the atmosphere. To explore not just submerged landscapes, but flooded institutions. Not just environmental breakdown, but the psychological weather of a society learning, slowly, that it may not recover.

Flood Waters Down is not set in some far-off, abstract tomorrow. It occupies the narrow band of time where today’s assumptions still mostly hold – but are beginning to fail.

Its lineage owes more to J.G. Ballard than to blockbuster dystopia: environments that shape behaviour, infrastructures that become characters in their own right, and futures that feel uncomfortably adjacent to the present.

The flooded Fens become a fragmented, part-rewilded zone of survivors and renegades. Elsewhere, enclaves of wealth retreat behind technology and automation, convinced they can outlast the chaos. Over it all hangs the presence of increasingly autonomous systems, designed to manage crisis, but quietly redefining what “order” means.

None of this requires a leap of imagination. We are already living with early versions of these dynamics: climate adaptation by postcode, algorithmic governance, uneven resilience, the quiet return of sovereign rule, the outsourcing of responsibility to systems no one fully controls.

Nothing transforms the world overnight – the future arrives with more of a shrug than a bang. But fiction can change how we pay attention.

Climate fiction, at its best, is not about predicting the future. It is about rehearsing emotional and ethical responses to the futures we are already drifting towards. It asks uncomfortable questions: Who adapts? Who retreats? Who decides? What do we cling to when the structures we trusted begin to dissolve?

As Flood Waters Down moves towards publication, I find myself less interested in whether readers find it frightening than whether they find it recognisable. That quiet click of understanding. That sense of yes, this feels plausible.

Because once a future becomes imaginable, it becomes discussable. And once it is discussable, it becomes harder to ignore. The water, after all, does not need our belief. It only needs our inaction.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Flood Waters Down is released in paperback by Cliftop Publishing on 9 April 2026 and will soon be available for pre-order.

Fighting for the Fens

 

The Fens of South Lincolnshire and Cambridgeshire have always been precarious – a landscape engineered by human determination, machinery and hard labour.

Now, as ageing infrastructure meets rising seas and volatile weather, the vast area of low-lying land faces its gravest threat since it was drained in the 17th century.

According to a report this week on the Lincolnshire Live website (Jamie Waller, 29 September 2025), the county could be forced to “surrender the Fens” back to the sea unless billions of pounds are spent on new defences.

As someone who lives on the edge of the Fens, I read his account from Lincolnshire County Council’s Environment Committee with unease – it could almost have been lifted from the pages of my upcoming novel Flood Waters Down (to be published Spring 2026).

Amy Shaw, flood risk manager for the Environment Agency (EA), didn’t sugar-coat it. “The cost is likely to be billions, not millions,” she told councillors. “The problem will be here before 2100 – within the next 10 or 15 years we will need to have a clear direction.”

This is no longer a hypothetical dilemma for the future. Decisions made now will determine whether the Fens and low-lying lands of Lincolnshire remain habitable for future generations.

Breaking point
Most of the area’s pumping stations and sluices were commissioned in the 1960s and recent Environment Agency studies show what would happen if those pumps stopped: vast swathes of Lincolnshire and Cambridgeshire would be under 1.5 metres of water.

Combine this with rising sea and tide levels, and it’s clear why the issue is urgent. Daniel Withnall, chief executive of the Black Sluice Internal Drainage Board, laid out the scale of the threat. “If we do nothing, we are surrendering the south of Lincolnshire – that’s how drastic it is,” he said.

The Fens 2100+ partnership (a consortium of local authorities and interested organisations) has begun preparing proposals to bid for government funding. But the scale of the ask is daunting and political priorities are often short-term.

Councillors at the meeting made no attempt to disguise the severity of the problem. Tom Ashton (Conservative) said: “I’m pleased our ambition to defend the Fens matches the ambition of our ancestors to create it. It will come down to money, and a huge amount of it. It’s unfortunate that river maintenance money is going down, not up.”

Raymond Whitaker (Reform UK Ltd) warned about the decrepit state of existing infrastructure: “If we have a couple of big storms, the pumping stations could break down and Lincolnshire could flood.”

And Ashley Baxter (Independent) brought both history and climate politics into the room, citing an ancestor who first came to the country as a refugee to help drain the Fens. “Now, four centuries later,” he warned, “climate change is the elephant in the room.”

Battling against nature
The Fens have never been entirely “won”. Every field, every straightened river and drainage channel is part of a centuries-long battle against water.

In dry summers, the black peat soils shrink and crack. In wet seasons, pumps groan under the strain while the North Sea, higher now than at any time in recent history, creeps upward year by year.

Locals know this instinctively. Farming families talk about the land “sitting on borrowed time.” And yet, the Fens are more than well-drained soil: they are one of the UK’s most productive agricultural regions. A third of the nation’s vegetables come from these fields.

Foreshadowing reality
When I began writing Flood Waters Down, my aim was to push the current fragility of the Fens into the future, imagining a scenario where sea defences are neglected, climate extremes accelerate and political will falters.

The novel explores the consequences for communities forced to adapt to flooded landscapes – some clinging on with technology, others turning to new ways of living. It’s a speculative narrative rooted in the science of climate change and infrastructure decay.

Blurring the lines
It’s rarely comfortable when fiction and reality come together. Reading the Lincolnshire Live report felt like opening a chapter of my own novel – except this time the decisions rest not with imagined characters but with government ministers, councillors, engineers and all of us who live in this landscape.

The Fens have always been a battleground between human ingenuity and nature. Four centuries ago, our ancestors chose ambition and succeeded. Today, the question remains: do we defend or retreat – or just prevaricate until nature decides for us?

To stand still is to gamble because, as Councillor Whitaker pointed out, one or two big storms could push fragile pumping stations past breaking point.

Perhaps this is the true value of stories like Flood Waters Down – to bring perspective and help us imagine potential consequences before they unfold. Either way, the clock is ticking.

Heat, wealth and denial

 

The Earth is on fire – literally and politically. From southern Europe to the American West, from South Asia to the UK, we are witnessing heatwaves, floods and systemic breakdowns. These are not outliers but the new normal.

And still, somehow, we go on pretending.

The Guardian's recent opinion headline – “Why do we pretend heatwaves are fun and ignore the brutal, burning reality?” – poses exactly the right question. Inflatable paddling pools, rooftop cocktails and weather presenters chirping about “glorious sunshine” are still our cultural defaults, even as climate systems tip dangerously toward the edge.

This dissonance is a form of climate denial. Not the outright rejection of science but a quieter more pervasive refusal to let the facts fully alter how we live, lead or legislate.

Adaptation limits

This week (23 June 2025), the UK’s Climate Change Committee released its latest review, warning that Britain remains dangerously unprepared for what lies ahead. "We are not resilient to the changes that are already happening," the report states. And worse, the pace of adaptation is slowing just when it needs to accelerate.

While the report argues that the UK could still reach net zero by 2050, it warns that this alone will not protect the country from flooding, heatwaves and food system instability. "Adaptation is as important as mitigation," the committee notes, "and right now we’re failing on both fronts."

This echoes what climate scientist Tim Lenton told The Guardian in a powerful interview entitled 'This is a fight for life'.

Lenton, an expert on climate tipping points, warns that cascading climate failures are not decades away – they are unfolding now.

What may once have been theoretical risks are becoming visible ruptures in our weather systems, water cycles and social infrastructure.

"We are in a planetary emergency," he declares bluntly. "But there’s still agency. We have a meaningful chance to turn this around – if we act."

Tipping points and privilege

Among the most chilling parts of Lenton’s interview is his critique of how the wealthy attempt to insulate themselves from climate impacts – by migrating, insuring, air conditioning or building physical barriers.

"People with financial resources are trying to buy resilience," he says. "In the long run this is not a crisis that respects wealth."

We saw that vividly in 2023’s flash floods in Germany, and again in recent Canadian wildfires and southern US droughts. Critical infrastructure collapses. Water fails. Food prices spike. Insurance markets break down. And while the vulnerable suffer first, no one is untouched

In short, climate chaos is not a distant threat to people in far away lands. It is here, now, and it is coming for the systems we all rely on.

Fiction as foresight

As someone who has turned to fiction rooted in climate science as a means of conveying urgency, I see this means of storytelling as a way to make the different facets of climate change more real. 

My forthcoming novel, Flood Waters Down, imagines a near-future Britain fractured by flooding, individual greed and collective disorientation.

The geography is drawn from Climate Central’s real-world sea level projection tools. The characters – though fictional – face choices rooted in policy inertia, displacement and social fragmentation.

They live in a country that pretended, for too long, that it could “cope” its way through climate change.

If that sounds familiar, it's because it is.

In the same week, CNN in the United States detailed the now-undeniable link between human-caused global warming and record-breaking heatwaves across the globe. "We are seeing extremes that scientists didn’t expect until the 2030s or 2040s," one researcher noted. "We’ve accelerated the timeline of risk."

Heat isn’t neutral

Extreme heat is not just uncomfortable. It kills. It erodes productivity, threatens food security and degrades mental health. It disproportionately affects the elderly, the poor, outdoor workers and those living in poorly insulated or densely built environments.

And yet, in much of the UK’s mainstream media and politics, heat is still largely treated as a lifestyle issue, not a public health or systemic risk.

Another recent editorial in The Guardian put it plainly: "We must stop thinking of climate breakdown as a future issue. We need to build national readiness now, or we’ll let everyday life keep breaking down."

That means investing in climate-resilient infrastructure, yes. But it also means telling new stories – stories that prepare people not just with facts, but with frameworks for feeling, thinking and acting differently.

Inflection point

The convergence of science, policy warnings, media coverage and lived experience is no coincidence. We are in an inflection moment – when the consequences of inaction are visible yet the possibilities of change and adaptation remain open.

Whether we respond with courage or complacency will define more than just the future of emissions. It will define the kind of society we become and the kind of world we leave.

In Flood Waters Down, the waters rise – and so does something else. Its characters and the challenges they face aren’t far from us. They’re just a few degrees – and decisions – ahead.

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 Flood Waters Down – for further details contact Clive Simpson

Where data meets dystopia

 

Future flood risk areas across Eastern England. (Climate Central)

I’ve always been fascinated by maps. Even in today’s world of satellite navigation and real-time updates, there’s something deeply reassuring about unfolding a trusty Ordnance Survey chart.

But whether modern digital or old-style printed, these visual guides can reveal far more than just the lay of the land. They hint at stories – past, present and future. 

Look long enough and you begin to see not only how the world is today but how it might be reshaped in the years ahead.

One such projection, hosted by Climate Central – a non-profit organisation of scientists and journalists that researches and communicates the impacts of climate change – powerfully illustrates how the world’s coastlines are gradually being redrawn.

Much of eastern England’s low-lying coast is a prime example of the land that will be changed by current rates of global warming and sea level rise.

Zoom into the coastline around The Wash, the Lincolnshire Fens and parts of Norfolk and Cambridgeshire, for example, and the familiar low-level terrain begins to vanish beneath a soft wash of red.

In near-future years, areas known for agriculture, an unassuming rural life and their historic market towns are increasingly shown as sitting in high flood risk zones – places where the sea will make ever more frequent inroads.

In technical terms the scenario depicted by Climate Central is based on the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change’s (IPCC) 2021 median projection under the SSP3-RCP7.0 pathway, which suggests global sea levels could rise by an average of over half a metre by 2050.

Whilst this may not sound catastrophic in itself, the impact on low-lying coastal and inland regions such as the Fens could be profound.

Sea floods will become more frequent and, in some places, just a few more inches of water could turn temporary storm surge flood zones into permanent wetland or, worse still, uninhabitable zones.

It’s a slow-motion disaster already moving forwards apace - and it’s also the starting point for the world I build in my forthcoming novel.

Personal and urgent

Flood Waters Down is set in a dystopian near-future Britain, where the eastern lowlands have been severely impacted by rising sea levels, repeated flooding and  climate-driven societal change.

Much of the action unfolds in and around a transformed Fens region – a landscape made unfamiliar not just by water also but by the consequences of ecological neglect and authoritarian responses.

I didn’t choose the setting by accident. I grew up here and live not far from these primal lands. I know their moods, the smell of the fields, the rhythm of life in mile after mile of flat country where sky and soil focus the conversation.

This familiarity made the writing more personal – and more urgent. When you imagine your own region unravelling at the edges, fiction quickly becomes something more than entertainment. It’s like a window on the future.

In recent years, climate fiction – or “climate-inflected sci-fi” – has matured into a serious literary genre. It’s not about predicting precisely what might happen, but rather projecting emotional, social and political truths through the lens of imagination.

That’s the intention behind Flood Waters Down – to extrapolate not just environmental conditions but the human responses that arise in their wake.

Map reading

The Coastal Risk Screening Tool developed by Climate Central uses peer-reviewed data and elevation models to simulate areas likely to fall below future annual flood levels.

The default setting projects flood risk for the year 2050 by combining anticipated sea level rise with the statistical height of a typical annual coastal flood. This leads to a visualisation of areas where permanent or frequent inundation may occur, reflecting  land, in the absence of any flood protection infrastructure, that would be below water during an annual flood event in 2050.

As a result, it can add risk to areas that may currently be defended in one way or another – and act as a reminder that such protections require continuous investment, maintenance and political will to remain effective.

The visual simplicity of the tool belies its complexity. You can explore different scenarios and time frames using the year slider and other settings – including more severe flood probabilities or the projected impacts of sea level rise alone.

Disappearing towns

In the SSP3-RCP7.0 scenario – considered a “regional rivalry” pathway with moderate-to-high emissions and limited climate policy cooperation – vast swathes of Lincolnshire and the East Anglian coast appear increasingly vulnerable.

Towns like Boston, Holbeach, Wisbech, King’s Lynn and Spalding are among those at greater risk. Crucially, it’s not just coastal settlements but deep inland areas at sea level, historically reliant on pumps and drainage defences, that face the greatest exposure.

In Flood Waters Down, I take this reality and extend it into the future. Civil infrastructure has failed, government priorities have shifted and certain regions are no longer considered worth defending or restoring.

People who stay behind – by choice, by poverty or protest – form fragmented communities, surviving in marginal conditions and living outside the protection of what remains of the state.

This isn’t science fiction in the conventional sense. It’s a narrative echo of today’s policy drift and tomorrow’s possible consequences.

We’ve been here before

The Fens, of course, have always lived with water. Historically marshland, they were systematically drained between the 17th and 20th centuries to create some of the UK’s most fertile farmland. That reclamation was a triumph of engineering, ambition and hubris – the human desire to master nature.

But as climate change accelerates and sea levels rise, this delicate equilibrium is under threat. According to the UK Environment Agency, around 620,000 properties in England are currently at risk from coastal flooding.

The same organisation warns that parts of Eastern England may be impossible to defend indefinitely without major adaptation or relocation strategies.

Add to that the social and political dimensions – resource stress, forced migration and increased surveillance – and you begin to glimpse the world Flood Waters Down inhabits.

Fiction as foresight

After many years writing as a journalist, I now also believe fiction has a vital role to play in climate discourse. Scientific data tells us what might happen; stories help us imagine what it could feel like. 

And in a time when climate anxiety is increasingly widespread – but often abstract or numbed – storytelling can make the intangible personal again.

The characters in Flood Waters Down are not heroes in the traditional sense. They’re ordinary people living in extraordinary times – facing moral compromise, loss and the persistent pull of memory. They resist erasure, they adapt and sometimes they fail. But above all, they bear witness.

Through them, I explore the many layers of the climate crisis, not just floods and nature, but governance, inequality, fear and the question of what kind of future we’re willing to fight for.

Flooding as a metaphor

When I began writing Flood Waters Down, I used flooding as metaphor – representing broader themes of collapse and disruption. But as I continued, and as the flood risk projections grew starker, I realised the metaphor was becoming real.

Sea levels are rising. Maps across the world are being redrawn. And governmental policy is either non-existent or still in the slow lane.

Climate Central’s map is a tool anyone can use to visualise what might be coming. My upcoming novel is a tool to feel it. 

Both are meant to spark conversation, reflection – and maybe, just maybe, preparation. Because the floodwaters aren’t just coming. In many places they’re already here. 

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Explore the map: Climate Central Coastal Risk Screening Tool

Flood Waters Down – for further details contact Clive Simpson