It is October 1909 and Rudyard Kipling, Britains first author to win the Nobel prize, is writing to his son, who is away at public school. Setting pen to paper at Batemans, his home in Burwash, Sussex, Kipling said: Dear old man. It has been a gay and hectic week. When I left my fathers house on Tuesday at 10am it was raining awfully, and it never stopped for an instant all the way.
One hundred and twenty-eight miles of motoring in a downpour that wetted everything to the skin. The motor came back to Batemans one solid clot of mud. Well! That was only the beginning of the fun! I had an idea we should have a bit of a flood in the valley but I had no notion we should have the worst flood since 1852!
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