Perhaps the parched Londoners are learning what it is like to do without Only in certain conditions can you witness the dark splendour of "Aurora Glaurealis", as she may sometimes be called. Typically, it will be late on a December afternoon in Greenock that this Scottish climactic phenomenon is unveiled in all its fell glory. While the northern lights of aurora borealis gently dance and shimmer across the sky her malevolent stepmother Glaurealis is a black curtain of rain that hangs and pulses in the artificial light of a west coast winter day. For Greenock possesses that special beauty that only occurs in those places where it is not expected. William Wordsworth beheld its charm as he looked out over the Tail of the Bank towards Argyll and Arran during a walking holiday in the Scottish west central lowlands. It does, though, rain often in Greenock, and in the middle of summer too. Indeed it has rained often across the west coast of Britain for most of July. Britain is well known as an economically divided nation, but are we seeing a balance restored in our weather patterns? For the most spectacular divisions this year are not along class lines, but across climactic ones. On many occasions I have journeyed from a sodden Glasgow to Edinburgh and watched rain clouds evaporate over Harthill and Arthur's Seat visible from 20 miles away and bathed in its own halo of sunlight. If you're sitting in the south-east corner of England, watching your green and pleasant garden weekly becoming parched and arid you may look longingly on the wet west. In June, throughout the kingdom, there was more sunshine than on an African savannah. July, though, has reverted to type and our green places are drookit and damp once more. The low-pressure systems sweep in over the west from the Atlantic and deposit their collected rainwater before moving to the east brighter and unburdened. On one day recently I walked the length of Sauchiehall Street in Glasgow. At the foot of the promenade the stones were wreathed in sunshine; by the time I had drawn level with the Glasgow Film Theatre the wind was up to "flying granny" on the Beaufort scale. But in the south-eastern counties, gardeners are wondering when they will share in the climate's spoils. An Englishman's home may still be his castle but without his hosepipe he is nothing. That's why those worrying about the drought will start to look west with envy. I have lived my entire life in the west, where hills and sea meet and where nature favours with all sides of her capricious personality. We have enough sun throughout the year to save us from looking too pasty and the rain when it comes can be a blessed relief. The sea and its smells and vastness is never far away while the brooding splendour of glens and mountains reminds you why you have a soul. We know never to grow complacent with our climate because storms are never far away. Generosity of spirit and resources is a characteristic of westerners because, as with our weather, we never know what may soon be approaching. Mother Nature this year seems to be redressing the economic imbalance that will always favour the economically over-fed south-east gathered around London, the beast that doesn't stop giving – but only if you live near it. Perhaps those parched and arid spaces of the rich counties are giving their owners an icy presentiment of what it might mean to do without?

A 50-year plan to divert the course of the Yangtze, Asia's mightiest river - to solve droughts and shortages is falling foul of costly pollution clean-up plans China's biggest hydro-engineering project – the £39bn South-North Water Diversion Project, is so contaminated by pollution despite the construction of more than 400 expensive treatment plants that water remains barely usable even after treatment, reports revealed this week. The South-North Water Diversion Project, is a hugely ambitious, 50-year project that aims to solve the country's worsening drought problems with three giant channels that will divert part of the Yangtze river towards the thirsty cities and factories around Beijing. Contamination levels are so high along much of the eastern leg – which runs along the Grand Canal - that the water is barely usable even after treatment. Almost all of the 426 pollution control projects have been completed, but the director of the project, Zhang Jiyao told the local media this week that there was a long way to go before water quality could be assured. This raises the prospect of further delays and costs for a project that began in 2002 and was supposed to have been operational more than three years ago. Domestic media predicted earlier this year that it would not open until 2013. It also highlights the severity of the pollution along the coastal manufacturing belt. Despite the closure of thousands of paper mills, breweries, chemical factories and other potential sources of contamination, the water quality along a third of the waterway falls far below even the modest standards that the government requires. The city of Tianjin – which was supposed to have been the main beneficiary of the water diversion – is already making alternative plans and building desalination plants to meet its water needs. It is hard to escape the conclusion that planners either massively underestimated the cost of the clear-up or that local governments have skimped on taking the necessary measures. It is a similar story for the Three Gorges Dam, which is also plagued by poor water quality. Zhang Lijun, the vice minister of the Chinese Ministry of Environmental Protection, complained that algae blooms are becoming more common as the reservoir stagnates. Local officials say they lack the funds to build treatment plants. These two giant projects could be plumbed together if, as predicted, water from the Three Gorges reservoir is needed to supplement southern rivers depleted by the diversion project. The government's principal concern is quantity, not quality. The falling water table on the North China plain is a priority, not least because it threatens the capital Beijing and some of the nation's main agricultural centres. Water shortages were deemed so critical last month that the authorities announced the diversion of 200m cubic meters of water from Hebei's farmfields to quench Beijing's thirst. Populations are also being diverted. This month, the authorities moved ahead with the biggest relocation in the South-North project so far - of 60,000 people in Henan. By the time the middle-leg of the South-North project is completed in 2013, the government estimates 345,000 people will have to be resettled and compensated. Given the persistent pollution concerns and the increasingly unstable climate, even these radical measures will solve northern China's water woes. But this big ticket item looks set to add further to the growing economic bill for environmental restoration.

Herders leave the steppe after losing a fifth of their livestock. Now foreign firms are to exploit Mongolia's vast resources A lifetime of experience, years of training and a sleepless night of preparation – yet Tsedendamba's stallion, in the fifth and prime year of its racing career, trailed across the finish line in 12th place. "Last year it came in second. This time we had the dzud, bitter winter conditions, and that's why I didn't push it harder in training. The horse is too thin," said the 61-year-old herder. Mongolia's national festival of Naadam, which saw contests in the "manly sports" of archery, racing and wrestling across the country last week, dates from before Genghis Khan's time and celebrates the country's fabled nomadic spirit. Almost a third of the population are herders. But the catastrophic winter has killed millions of animals and left thousands of rural families struggling to survive. It has also exacerbated the country's financial woes, increasing the pressure to exploit its vast but largely untapped mineral resources. Two decades after the collapse of communism, Mongolia may be at another turning point. Tsedendamba, who like many Mongolians uses only his given name, was experienced enough to foresee the dzud, or "white death". He roamed far across central Övorkhangai province to ensure his livestock fed well despite the summer drought. He prepared fodder for the coming winter and built up their shelter. Others slaughtered the weakest animals to ensure more food for the strongest. None of it was enough. Temperatures fell to -50C and thick snow buried the grass. By the time it finally melted in May, nearly 9,000 families had seen their entire herds freeze or starve to death. Another 33,000, including Tsedendamba's, lost half their livestock. Almost 10m cattle, sheep, goats, horses, yaks and camels have died, a fifth of the country's total, at a cost of 520bn tögrögs (£250m). Pregnant animals miscarried and weakened ones are still succumbing to illness. Only the ravens are fat here, gorged on carrion. For many households, their only recent income has been UN payments for burying carcasses. But beneath the soil could lie a fresh start for the country: gold, copper, uranium, lead, fluorspar and coal. Poverty and rationing After years of political wrangling, Mongolia agreed a deal last October for the Oyu Tolgoi copper and gold seams, which should bring $5bn (£3.3bn) of foreign investment – a little more than the country's GDP last year. Analysts at one investment bank have predicted it could unleash an unstoppable transformation and create a "Mongolian wolf" economy. For its citizens, such prospects are long overdue. The former Soviet satellite has been hailed as a success story of post-communist political transition, moving with relative smoothness to democracy. But its economy has taken it close to disaster in the last two decades. The country lost almost its sole source of aid and trade. Poverty rates soared in the 90s and rationing was in place during the early years of capitalism. Even after recent annual growth rates of around 8%, the proportion living below the poverty line – 101,600 tögrögs (about £50) a month – appears stubbornly unchanged at more than a third. Many are clustered in the unlovely capital of this strikingly beautiful country. Six times the size of the UK, Mongolia has just 2.75 million inhabitants, and almost 40% of them live in Ulan Bator. In the last decade, its population swelled from 800,000 to almost 1.1 million, with arrivals peaking in the wake of harsh winters. Tens of thousands more are likely to arrive as the consequences of this winter play out in the next few years. NGOs say destitute herders have already moved to small settlements, just as they did after the last dzud, before realising there was no work and drifting towards the capital. Some have arrived already. It took 14 days for Erdenebileg's family to drive what remained of their flock the 300 miles from southern Dundgovi province to a bleak hillside in Töv province, close to the city. Once, they enjoyed "a pretty decent life", selling cashmere and spare animals for cash to supplement the meat and milk from their 600-strong herd. Then came the winter. "Every day we saw our animals dying in front of us. I was devastated," said the 32-year-old, her face etched deep by the wind and worry. The 80 surviving animals graze close to the family's tent, overlooking a disused concrete factory and rubbish tip. Her husband has been lucky, finding a factory job through relatives. But the couple and their four children will barely scrape by on his 150,000 tögrögs (£75) a month. The government recently withdrew substantial child benefits. "We hoped things might be easier closer to town, but it's not what I expected. It's much worse," said Erdenebileg. "Our future is uncertain, but we know there's no going back." Most longer-term migrants are stuck in the crowded ger (yurt) settlements around the capital, where 46% live in poverty. Stray goats pick their way through the mud and children kick at corrugated steel fences separating each plot. Sanitation and services are poor. Many lack the documents to claim benefits – though a registration drive should help – and the skills to find work. Some scrabble over rubbish dumps for plastic or glass to sell to recyclers. Cheerleaders of the move to exploit the country's natural resources believe it can tackle such entrenched poverty, creating jobs and growth. Robert Friedland, executive chairman of Ivanhoe, Oyu Tolgoi's Canadian co-developer, boasted recently: "When production begins, Mongolian GDP could rise by 30% and employment by 10% per year for 30 years." But many observers are concerned that the prospects are being oversold. "Expectations have gone, in my view, way ahead of reality," said Arshad Sayed, country representative of the World Bank. "There is a big danger society faces, because when people's expectations are not met, at some point they will get very upset." Nomads of the 21st century Oyu Tolgoi will create 3,000 jobs, but the real question is how the government spends the revenues and whether the mine will kickstart the wider economy. The deal was stalled for years by concerns that foreign firms would not give Mongolia a fair deal and anxiety about the geopolitical implications. Negotiations on the development of Tavan Tolgoi, a massive coal seam, are mired in similar debates. "[Oyu Tolgoi] may not be the best agreement but I don't think it's the worst either," said Sanjaasuren Oyun, a trained geologist, former foreign minister and one of only three opposition MPs, thanks to Mongolia's grand coalition. "Time is also of the essence. After 20 years of transition, many people's lives are economically no better off than under communism." Boost health and education spending and Mongolia can diversify its economy and see real development, she said. That is all the more necessary because the winter blizzards precipitated a rural crisis that has been long in the making. "Forty-four million animals was far beyond [Mongolia's] natural capacity," said Tungalag Ulambayar of the UN development programme, who believes even the surviving livestock population pushes the limits of sustainability. Tens of thousands of families moved to the countryside in the 90s, when the economic crisis led to food shortages in cities. Some say that contributed to the increase in herd sizes, with new herders unaware of the dangers of overgrazing. But challenging herders is "very political," Tungalag added, not only because they form a powerful constituency, but because nomadism is identified with the country's very spirit. You can drive for hours across Mongolia without seeing a fence, and permanent buildings are few and far between. On the horizon, dotted about, are the gers, the traditional white, circular, felt tents of herders. The scene appears timeless. But its inhabitants have been buffeted not only by the weather but by man-made forces arising far beyond the steppes: desertification partly caused by global warming, bad loans and rising interest rates, and volatile commodity prices. When cashmere prices soared, they bought more goats, which damaged more pastures. Then the financial crisis hit. Wealthy westerners reined in their spending, cashmere prices halved and incomes plummeted. "Of course you [may be] a nomad – but you are a nomad in the 21st century, and you have to adapt to the market to survive," said Tungalag, who believes herders need training in risk management and new livestock practices. Yet many are undeterred by the turbulence of the last few years. Lkhagvasuren moved to Ulan Bator when a cruel winter wiped out his livestock three years ago, rebuilding his herd only to see it destroyed again this winter. Now he plans to find labouring work. "But if I make some money I'll use it to buy more animals," he said as he crouched in his leaking ger. "Mongolia without herders is unimaginable."

Smaller fair-trade tea co-operatives in the Western Cape choose wild rooibos to beat climate change and large-scale growers

Watch Henrietta Lovell enjoy the slow life on a farmstay in the Cederberg mountains, north of Cape Town When rooibos, South Africa's naturally caffeine-free tea, made the jump from health food store to supermarket staple it provided a lifeline for a small group of indigenous farmers. Then drought and the entry of commercial growers into the market threatened them with ruin. But they are fighting back by planting wild rooibos. George Kotze's great, great, great- grandparents were among the first farmers to grow rooibos tea in South Africa's wild and desolate Western Cape, the only place in the world where the bushes are found. Despite great hardship, including losing their land to European settlers and discrimination under apartheid, the Khoisan community have been growing the tea ever since. "Uncle George", as the field workers call him, is on his way to meet the other farmers at the "tea court" at the Heiveld tea co-operative, where they come together to chop, ferment and dry their rooibos tea. It's a bumpy one-hour drive over gravel roads, which usually wash away when the winter rains come. Although it is only lunchtime, 66-year-old George has already walked 52km to Nieuwoudtville, the closest town, and back. He got up at 2am to walk by the light of the moon just to buy a bar of soap. Tea farmer Drieka Kotze, 49, worked as a labourer on white-owned commercial tea farms until 1986, when she came back to her tiny family homestead to work her land. Gesturing to a point beyond the horizon, she says: "It is better here than on a white farm because we are no longer onderdruk [oppressed]. But my family is not originally from here. We owned the Sewefontein farm over there. Whites took it from us in 1870." In 2003, Heiveld, set in around 400 square metres of drought-prone land on the Sud Bokkeveld, a five-hour drive from Cape Town, was one of two small farmer co-operatives in South Africa supplying 100% of the organic, fair trade rooibos market. But now large-scale commercial farmers dominate the market. "They've taken away Heiveld's market share and had a strong downward impact on prices," says Noel Oettle, rural programmes manager at the Environmental Monitoring Group (EMG), a local NGO that helped Heiveld set up as a co-operative in 2000. To make matters worse, changing climate conditions are threatening production. When a major drought hit the area in 2003, the springs upon which the farmers had always depended for water dried up and the tea plants' three-metre-deep tap roots were unable to draw moisture from the soil. By the time the drought broke three years later many plants had died. At that time, they were growing cultivated rooibos, which originates on the Cedarberg mountain range about 150km away. "Cultivated rooibos grows very fast and produces a lot of seed but needs a regular, high rainfall," said Oettle. So the Khoisan turned to wild rooibos, the plant discovered by their ancestors. Dr Rhoda Malgas, a scientist at South Africa's Stellenbosch University, together with the farmers, monitored and assessed both wild and cultivated crops of rooibos. They found wild rooibos to be more heat and drought resistant. It grows more slowly and it can store up water reserves in its enlarged roots, enabling it to survive greater extremes of climate than its cultivated cousin. Malgas questions how long cultivated rooibos can be grown in the area. "Climate forecasts for this region predict general warming and drying over the next five decades," she says. "Sustained high levels of production [of cultivated rooibos] during times of drought stress result in increased use of water at a time when water reserves are low." The wild rooibos plants produce tea for up to 50 years, while cultivated crops last up to six years. The wild plants also thrive on the regular natural fires caused by summer lightning. The fires burn the top off the plant, helping it to grow faster, while the ash fertilises the nutrient-poor soil. Farmer Maans Fontuil says: "Here it is about survival. It is an extreme environment. Wild tea feels at home in poor-nutrient, sandy soil." The Heiveld Co-operative now claims to be the world's first supplier of sustainably harvested wild rooibos, hoping to carve a niche in a market dominated by big commercial farms. Back at the Heiveld tea court, several older farmers take a break from their work to talk about how they wish more South Africans would buy their tea. Younger farmers, like 32-year-old Hugo Kotze, say that the small piece of land owned by the co-op's members is not big enough to produce enough tea to lift the families above the poverty line. The year's harvest netted the farmers just over $1,500 each. He points to the white-owned sheep farms surrounding the tea court. "This land is too small for us to plant further," he says. "We need more land if we are to continue with tea farming. I would be happy if the government could help us by buying up one of the farms for us but they are very slow." Another downside for farmers is the wild plants cannot be grown from cuttings and are only harvested every second year. Batting for the small farmers is a French tea buyer, Arlette Rohmer of Paris-based Les Jardins de Gaia. She has sold six tonnes of Heiveld tea to the French market every year for the past 11 years. "These people are fighting to have a better life and I really fight to sell the small farmers' products. The big enterprises destroy both the soil and the small farming activities. We buyers really have to lead in showing the difference between the products of big organised businesses and the small farmers who care about biodiversity." Andy Good, a tea buyer at fair-trade co-operative Equal Exchange UK, has been buying tea from Heiveld for the past six years. Breaking into an already saturated market won't be easy for the farmers, he says. "From a climate point of view it makes a lot of sense to plant wild rooibos. But in the UK, I think the market for wild rooibos will have to be built. There is immense oversupply in the industry: a few strong commercial companies who have good capital bases, and agents across the world who have contacts with supermarket buyers." "The small farmer has to compete against that. It has been such a struggle just for Heiveld to be in existence against these big companies. It is a David and Goliath situation."