On 30th December 2015, four days after Storm Eva unleashed the catastrophic Boxing Day floods across West Yorkshire, I travelled into the Calder Valley with my camera. My original intention had been to document Hebden Bridge—a community whose vibrant, independent spirit has always drawn photographers and visitors alike. But upon arriving, the reality of the situation became immediately apparent.
Hebden Bridge was in deep distress. Skips lined the streets, filled to overflowing with waterlogged furniture, ruined carpets, and priceless personal keepsakes. Shopkeepers and residents were working tirelessly, covered in mud, frantically salvaging whatever remained of their homes and livelihoods. Standing there with a camera felt intrusive and disrespectful. Cataloguing the immediate, raw trauma of people’s personal tragedy felt less like bearing witness and more like voyeurism.
Unwilling to intrude upon Hebden Bridge’s painful cleanup, I walked back along the valley toward Mytholmroyd. Here, along the banks of the River Calder, the waters had receded, leaving behind a stillness that was both eerie and poignant. These four black-and-white photographs reflect that quiet December day—a moment of silent observation following one of the worst natural disasters in the modern history of the Calder Valley.
The Rising Waters of Boxing Day 2015
To understand the atmosphere of that late December morning, one must recall the sheer scale of what occurred on December 26th. Following weeks of persistent rain that saturated the West Yorkshire hills, Storm Eva delivered a deluge of unprecedented proportions. Over 100mm of rain fell in 24 hours across already swollen catchments.
The River Calder, usually a scenic waterway defining the charm of these old mill towns, transformed into a torrent. In Mytholmroyd, water levels reached historic peaks, overtopping defences, bursting banks, and flooding hundreds of homes, local businesses, and primary schools. The floodwaters rose with alarming speed, trapping people in upper floors and turning streets into fast-flowing rivers.
By December 30th, the torrent had subsided back into its riverbed, but the visual markers of its destructive height were everywhere. Looking along the riverbanks near the historic stone mill buildings, you could see the debris line snagged on overhanging branches and stone ledges—silent indicators of just how high the water had climbed only days prior.
The Silent Marks on the Landscape
Photographing the river rather than the bustling street cleanup allowed for a different kind of reflection. A flood leaves two types of scars: the immediate human impact on homes and streets, and the quiet alterrings of the physical landscape.
Looking down the channel of the Calder towards the terraces lining the valley, the river appeared subdued, almost innocent. Yet, the riverbanks told a different story. Stripped vegetation, silted banks, and tangled debris caught in bare winter trees marked the violent boundary where water met land. The cobblestones and gravel beds along the river margins had been scoured and redistributed by the sheer hydraulic force of the surge.
Monochrome photography felt like the natural choice for these images. Stripping away colour removes distractions and highlights the raw textures of the landscape: the cold grey of the Yorkshire gritstone, the silty mud deposits left on the banks, and the bleak, dark water cutting through the valley under a grey winter sky.
Bridges of Resilience: Hawksclough Bridge
One of the most striking sights along this stretch of the Calder is the traditional masonry architecture that defines the region. Hawksclough Bridge stands as a testament to historic Pennine engineering. Built from heavy gritstone blocks, its arch has weathered centuries of floods, spates, and harsh Yorkshire winters.
Standing beside the bridge on December 30th, you could appreciate the resilience engineered into these stone structures. While modern infrastructure across the region suffered severe damage—bridges elsewhere in Yorkshire collapsed under the strain—the sturdy stone arches of the Calder Valley held firm against the crushing weight of the water.
Yet even here, the flood had left its mark. Fine silt coated the stone cobbles along the riverbed, and bits of uprooted river weed remained wedged between the stone joints high above the normal water line. The bridge stood quiet and enduring, serving as a reminder that while floods are devastating, the stone heart of the valley remains immovable.
Silt, Sand, and the Path to Recovery
Near the heart of Mytholmroyd, standing by the main road bridge with the church tower looming in the background, the physical aftermath of the flood's power was undeniable. Beneath the bridge arches lay massive sandbars and thick beds of river silt, deposited as the raging water slowed down and dropped its heavy sediment burden.
Drawn up on the silt bank was a large, waterlogged branch—just a fraction of the heavy debris that had swept down from the upper moorlands during the height of the deluge. Seeing these vast sand deposits exposed beneath the bridge highlighted the immense volume of material moved by the river in a matter of hours.
In the years following December 2015, Mytholmroyd would undergo major flood defence construction projects to better protect its homes and heritage from future extreme weather events. But on December 30th, 2015, the valley was still catching its breath.
These four photographs serve as a quiet record of that brief, solemn pause between the disaster itself and the long, heroic journey of rebuilding that the community undertook in the months and years that followed.
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All the pictures remain the copyright of Colin Green.
