Chester, England

Excerpt from The Day the Rain Fell: an oral history of The Storm by Natasha Silvio and Francisco de Manion.

Ted and Loretta are a British couple from Chester, England, close to the Wales/England border. We’re sitting in a pub in Chester, drinking beer and having lunch, as they tell the story of how they were caught out in The Storm and what happened.

Ted: Blimey, that was some storm, wasn’t it? Never seen anything like it. Probably never will again.

Loretta: Absolutely bonkers. We were up in Chester when it happened. For you lot (she points to the two interviewers) that’s up near Wales.

Ted: Babe, we’re in Chester right now. They’re in Chester. They’re interviewing us in Chester. They know where Chester is.

Loretta: Well, I’m just trying to help. There might be a lot of Americans listening to this. They’re not going to know where we’re on about.

Ted: (nods his head as if conceding the point.) Every American we talk to when we go on holiday always asks the same question when we tell them we’re from England: where in London are you from?”

Loretta: (laughing) The country’s more than just London.

So, about The Storm. You guys were in Chester. Do you remember how it started?

Ted: We were heading down to the pub to get a nice pie. It was a little after lunch, but we hadn’t eaten yet, so I was craving a pie. We get to the pub, and it starts pelting down.

Loretta: There’s this awning there at the pub. It started once we got there, and we stayed outside because it was truly bizarre. Just parked by the awning, watching the rain. One moment it’s nothing but clear skies, the weather report telling us it’s gonna be nice and sunny, and the next everything is falling down on our heads.

Ted: Yea, so we’re standing outside, ready to go into the pub, when I smell it. It was strange, I remember thinking.

Loretta: (pokes Ted in the side and gives him a beaming smile.) Tell them what it smelled like for you.

Ted: I was just about to babe. It…it smelled like Chinese food.

Loretta: Wow, you’re so bad at telling a story.

Ted: When I first asked her out, I took us to a Chinese food restaurant out in London. It was this small hole-in-the-wall place. Don’t think most of them spoke English, so when we got there they seated us at this table in the back and brought out a menu with pictures and the like, and I just pointed to a couple dishes.

Loretta: For Americans, you have to know that our Chinese food is different. We’ve got chips, we’ve got curry sauce that comes on everything. There’s this one place that opened up near us that even does a nice chip butty.

Ted: Yea, but this tiny shop we went in didn’t have anything like that. It only had a few dishes we could order. I remember getting a chicken dish, not even knowing what I ordered. And it’s our first date and Loretta and I just talked. I think we closed the place down.

Loretta: Tell them about The Storm.

Ted: So, we’re at the pub and the rain’s coming down and I sniff and it smells exactly like that Chinese place all those years ago. Like, exactly. We’re outside the pub, and I just go quiet because I’ve been transported back to that hole-in-the-wall Chinese shop where I first fell in love. I remember us sitting at this table in the back, next to the kitchen. Whenever one of the servers would walk by, the door would swing open and you’d hear all the clamor coming from back there. I didn’t think much of it at the time because I was just so focused on Loretta and listening to what she was saying. But, The Storm brought it all back to my mind. Smelling the rain, I can remember the taste of my meal. She ordered a shrimp thing. I had my chicken. We’re out at the pub, miles from London, ages from our first date, staring at the rain, and it’s like I could remember the entire evening as if it happened yesterday.

Loretta: (smiles as she listens to Ted’s tale.) When he told me that, I…I melted.

What did it smell like to you?

Loretta: Yorkshire pudding.

Ted: (laughs) Mine was our first date, hers is Yorkshire pudding.

Loretta: No. It was what my nan used to make at Christmas. It brought back memories of when we’d drive out to her house in the country – the slightly peeling linoleum floor tiles, the frayed carpet, those silly paper hats she’d make us all wear around the dinner table. She loved it.

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Ted: It wasn’t just us affected by The Storm. Couple moments later, the whole pub is outside because they smelled the rain; they smelled what we smelled.

Loretta: But…you know, different.

How different?

Loretta: Everyone smelled something different. I had a chat with Sam who told me it smelled like an old car. His dad had this old green Hillman Hunter. On the weekends when he was a kid they’d pack a thermos of tea, some sarnies, and the whole family would drive out to the country for a picnic. When it rained or was too nippy, they’d sit in the car and eat their sarnies and cat.

Ted: Max.

Loretta: Yea, Max.

What happened with Max?

Ted: Well, we’re all outside in the rain, everyone is lost in their own memories. I remember looking over, and Max is just breaking down crying.

Loretta: Max is this kid in town. Early twenties. His dad just passed, and I thought he was over it. But the rain reminded him of the woods. They’d go out birding in the spring. Max never really liked it. Thought it was boring or something. But his dad loved birding. He’d go out with his binoculars and everything. He had a notebook that he’d jot down which birds he’d seen. They’d go walking some trails out in the countryside, Max dutifully shuffling along beside his father. And they’d stop and his dad would look through the binoculars and say something like “oh, a red-crested nuthatch” or something like that.

Ted: He didn’t tell us what memory popped up when he smelled the rain, but he did say that it was about his father. And when the rain stopped and we all went inside, wondering what just happened, he started telling stories about how he used to go birding with his dad.

Loretta: It was only later when we heard about The Storm and twigged that’s what happened to us. I didn’t know what exactly it was. Maybe it was our minds playing tricks on us or something. What do you think?

Ted: I don’t know. I prefer to think it was magical. Moments like that where we connect deeply with our past, they don’t come around too often. Maybe it’s the universe’s way of reminding us what is truly important. Maybe those memories are always with us, waiting to be awakened by something as simple as a scent in the air.

Loretta: (takes a moment to look at Ted) What the hell are you on about?

Appalachian Trail

Alan was a northbounder.

That was the title given to hikers who attempted to hike the entirety of the Appalachian Trail from Springer Mountain, Georgia to Mount Katahdin, Maine.

When he’d first set off on his grand hike, each night saw him broken and exhausted from the day’s activities. He’d cook his food, crawl into his tent, and try to sleep away all the pain and soreness that wracked his body. That was the price of having lived a sedentary life for the previous four years. He’d spent his days sitting in a cubicle, working on a computer, doing data analysis for the city of Macon, Georgia. Weekends were filled with the occasional date or hanging out with friends.

Alan had no qualms with that kind of life: socializing with friends, finding a spouse, watching Netflix, reading books, or finding other ways to entertain himself. It was the same kind of life that all his parents, friends, and coworkers lived.

But something inside him yearned for more. Every relationship he found himself in seemed stilted because he wanted something better. Every time he started dating, an overwhelming fear of being trapped overcame him. He felt like his life was on guide rails that would lead him twenty years down the line to something he never wanted.

So, he left it all behind. He sold most of his possessions, bought a lightweight tent, a pack, and some hiking boots, and set off to hike the Appalachian Trail.

The first few weeks were a blur of challenges. His legs, unused to such a relentless activity, screamed in protest with every step. Blisters formed on his feet, and his shoulders ached from the weight of his pack. Every night, he’d huddle in his tent, the sounds of the forest a stark contrast to the hum of the city he’d grown up in.

Alan’s transformation wasn’t immediate. Each day was a test of resolve, pushing him to his physical and mental limits. Yet, with each passing mile, with each night spent under a canopy of stars, he felt himself change. His body began to adapt. His muscles strengthened, blisters turned to calluses, and those few extra pounds he’d packed on had slipped off him. The exhaustion that once overwhelmed him at night began to feel like a badge of honor; a testament to his perseverance.

With every state line he crossed, Alan felt a greater sense of accomplishment than any work promotion or social achievement. The simplicity of travel – the rhythm of walking, the clarity of purpose, the direct connection he felt with everything around him – brought with it a profound sense of peace. He yearned to experience life in its rawest, most unfiltered form. And he got it through travel.

Those few hikers he met along the way each had their own stories to tell. Some, like him, were seeking something they couldn’t quite define. Others were hiking for the health benefits, or for the story, or for the adventure. He shared meals, campfires, and stories with the hikers, forming a temporary community that held a deeper bond than any he had formed in his past life.

And then The Storm hit.

As the first few raindrops began to fall, Alan ran to an old, dilapidated cabin set back from the trail that he managed to spot. It was abandoned and barely looked habitable, but it was better than nothing. He rushed inside and slammed the door shut just as The Storm reached a crescendo.

Lightning flashed, casting eerie shadows through the cabin’s dilapidated walls. Rain poured in through gaps in the roof, offering Alan little shelter from The Storm outside. He huddled in a corner, trying to make himself small against the onslaught of wind and rain.’

As he curled in the corner, a sharp pain twisted in his stomach. It crept up through his throat, and his mouth started watering as if he’d eaten something sour. He tried to push his body up, but a wave of vertigo struck, forcing him to press his head to the floor to stop the room from spinning.

He didn’t want to puke inside the cabin, knowing The Storm would last well into the night and not wanting to share the cramped space with a pile of his own vomit. Forcing himself upright, he sprinted for the door, hoping to get outside before he puked.

He opened the door and was just about to step out when a powerful gust of wind tore through, slamming the door shut and knocking him back. He tried to force the door open again, only managing to open a small crack that he tried to squeeze through. The wind roared again, pushing Alan back into the cabin and slamming the door closed.

The fury of The Storm turned into a roar; the wind sounded like it was chanting a language he couldn’t understand but could feel deep in his bones. His mind was filled with fleeting images and sensations; flashes of memories that weren’t his own.

Blood. The smell and taste of it in the air. It was on his tongue. A waterfall. Mud squished under his feet as he walked barefoot through a forest, the calluses on his feet a better protection than any shoe could afford. Climbing a mountain while wearing light linen pants and rags as a shirt, not feeling the wind ripping at his skin.

The Storm continued and Alan started to understand he’d be unable to leave the cabin. He crawled to the far corner, hoping to keep his vomit contained there. When he finally began to puke, it wasn’t the expected bile that forced its way out of his mouth.

Strange sounds erupted from his throat. They sounded like discordant notes that scratched at his ears, the fragment of songs he’d heard long ago, and snippets of barely remembered conversations. His mother recounting her day, his friends joking about his fashion sense, his first crush dropping hints he only understood later.

The Storm outside intensified, and with every crash of thunder, Alan vomited. Each time he did, more and more bizarre things erupted from him. Glowing symbols and runes spilled from his mouth, danced in the air, and dissipated into mist. Vomit that splashed to the floor morphed into butterflies that sang like birds. They fluttered through the cabin before vanishing in puffs of multi-colored smoke.

Finally, when Alan felt like he’d purged his entire being onto the cabin floor, his body retched one last time. Blackness filled his mouth, absorbing every bit of light that filtered through the dilapidated cabin walls until the entire cabin was pitch black. Yet somehow, Alan could still see. The darkness coalesced into a figure that stood hunched in the middle of the cabin, and something blared in Alan’s mind. The only word that was discernible was: dangerous.

Alan stared at the figure, his heart pounding. And outside, The Storm continued to rage.

Over the next week, forest rangers scoured the Appalachian Trail, seeking hikers who might have been harmed by The Storm. They found Alan’s tent and his pack in the corner of an old, dilapidated cabin set off the main trail.

But there was no sign of Alan himself.