On August 15, 1952, torrential rains fell across England with some locations receiving nine inches in less than twenty four hours. Rivers rose with the increased rainfall, including the West Lyn River near a small northern Devon village called Lynmouth.
During the night, the West Lyn River broke its banks and a subsequent flash flood ripped through Lynmouth, killing 34 people and devastating the village.
Ronnie Noble, by this time was working for the BBC News, and in his memoirs, wrote down his thoughts on this story that managed to rattle both him and a fellow BBC News photographer.
“Sometimes the call is no surprise. Perhaps the six o’clock radio news gives out a story, and you expect the phone to ring as soon as the bulletin has ended. When the weather is bad – storms, rain or snow – no story comes as a surprise; not usually anyway. But the Lynmouth tragedy caught us all napping. We were watching the storm reports from all over England, awaiting a call-out. Devon was far from our minds, and then the Editor gave me a four word brief on the phone. “Lynmouth – North Devon – now!”
I did not ask questions, but jumped into the car and headed through the night with the needle touching a very dangerous 70 MPH. As I swung the Austin around the twisting Devon roads, I wondered what the story could be. I’ve never heard of a flood in Devon. Blocked roads were the first clue, and then as I rounded a bend I saw three houses hanging over a cliff, and a huge crack across the road’s muddy surface. I made serveral shots looking down into the chasm, where fifty feet below a muddy river swirled through the rocks. There was no sign of the houses’ foundations, or indications of how the river had attained such a flood-height that it could cause such damage.
Farther down, after skidding along the steep gradiant on patches of mud which had been cast by the wheels of heavy vehicles, I arrived at a barrier. A policeman with red sleepy eyes asked who I was and why I was bringing a car down. I told him.
“What, more of you? There are cameramen and reporters everywhere. There are more Press people than victims, thank God!” he said, and he let me through to the mass of grim spectators.
Jimmy Balfour, a fellow television cameraman, stepped up to the car. His thin face was ash-white, his spectacles were mud splattered and his trousers were torn. I’d never seen him so shaken, and we’ve covered many tough assignments together.
“God, Ronnie, it’s terrible. I’ve never seen the likes of it!”
“What the devil has happened? I demanded. “I still don’t know what its all about!”
“Well until yesterday, that was Lynmouth!” he replied, pointing across the footbridge.
I saw the remains of this small Devon village, where eaves touched the street-level, making the road resemble a line of tiled cucumber frames, where there are no connecting walls between the earth and the roof. The thick silt, swept from the hills behind Lynmouth, filled the streets as would a bucket of sand poured over a doll’s house village. The ground level had been raised fifteen feet overnight. A small township was all but wiped out in fifteen minutes! I looked up at a bedroom. It was like an architect’s model, for the outside walls were missing as though to give us a better view of the room’s advantages. I made a shot of the bed, a pair of nylon stockings hanging over a chair. I imagined the people of Lynmouth putting their children to bed, tucking themselves in and turning off the lights, completely unaware of a disaster which was building itself up in violent stages only a mile or so above the village. And then the shock in the night when those huge trees and rocks swept over them with a roar greater and more sustained than any bomb. They awoke to see their bedroom walls being swept away into the black night. Floors disappeared under people who awoke to find themselves falling into the racing torrent.”
The Lynmouth story that Noble, Balfour and soundman Leslie Mann shot can be seen on the BBC’s website.
