We very rarely get snow in Blackpool. We might get a short flurry but it never seems to settle. Which is why it was strange this morning to wake up knowing that ‘snow’ was the title of the blog post I needed to write today, and then to glance out of the window and see a white carpet instead of a green lawn. As usual, it was gone by the time I went out for my walk at lunchtime, but it did get me thinking about the snow I’d experienced in the past.
The smattering in the garden this morning
I remember the excitement of waking up as a child, being aware of the unusual silence outside, and opening the curtains to see that glaring white blanket, covering everything in sight, just waiting to be disturbed. Like most kids, my brothers and I couldn’t wait to get outside. If I recall correctly, the games usually ended with me running inside crying, having been hit by a perfectly aimed snowball. My elder brother would be grinning and protesting his innocence, but making sure he was too far from the house for our mom to come running out in her slippers, grab him by the offending throwing arm and drag him back indoors. My woolen gloves would be sodden and dripping, and my toes inside my wellies would be dry but almost numb with the cold. This whole scenario would be repeated several times throughout the day, interspersed with periods of harmony where all three of us would spend a quiet half hour, deep in concentration, whilst we built a snowman, no doubt annoying my mom even more by constantly running in and out of the house, dripping freezing water everywhere, looking for carrots and coal and my dad’s scarf and hat. As a child the days of snow were certainly some of my most exciting, made even more so by school been shut down on the days when it would be impossible to get there.
In contrast, one of my worst experiences involved a heavy snow storm. With a friend, and our five children I had driven to Mickleton, a tiny village in Co Durham, to visit my brother and his wife. The weather was cold but sunny, perfect driving conditions. However, as we came to leave later that evening, there was a big, dark cloud, hovering overhead. We crammed the children into our rusty old car - christened the Belgrano, for obvious reasons. There were the usual arguments about who was sitting where, the boot of the hatchback being the favoured place for all five children. This was in the days before safety was the main consideration and even seatbelts weren’t compulsory. The two youngest were given the privileged position and the rest were squashed on the back seat.
To understand the true horror of the journey that ensued it’s necessary to be acquainted with the local terrain. In order to reach Brough - and a main road - one had to drive for about half an hour ‘over the tops.’ This is a winding road with no lights, a drop of various, worrying depths on one side, and numerous wandering sheep: fine on a bright sunny day, not so great when driving a huge orange rust bucket containing a friend and five arguing children - two of them in the boot.
As we were waved off by a clearly relieved brother and his wife, the first tiny flurries of snow began to fall. 'How lovely,' we said, ‘look kids, snow!’ By the time we got to the long and winding road over the tops dusk had turned to night, the sky was completely black, the snow was swirling and visibility was practically nil. Not only was it impossible to see where the side of the road dropped into the valley but the snow was also totally disorientating. I tried turning on main beam. I couldn’t decide whether that made it better or worse. Snowflakes were flying around in every direction, making it seem as though we were going backwards at times. Friend, in a controlled panic, had her nose pressed up against the windscreen, trying to direct operations, ‘You’re all right, stay to the left, bend coming up, slow down....’ I didn’t need to be told to slow down. I was probably doing 10mph. I could feel the ice under the tyres and dreaded a dangerous skid. The only good thing was that all other (sensible) people were staying indoors in front of the fire and not driving like idiots along a treacherous stretch of winding road in a snow storm. We might end up upside down in the valley, or knocking out a careless sheep but at least we wouldn’t be hanging by our non existent seat belts and we wouldn’t be having any head on crashes.
I don’t think I’ve ever had a more frightening driving experience (apart from when a tire blew on the motorway, the car went out of control and I ended up crashing into the left side barrier - but that’s another story). We continued along the tops, our noses pressed against the windscreen, the silence only punctuated periodically by a child nervously giggling and myself or friend telling them in a clipped, no nonsense voice, to be quiet. By the time we reached the safety of the main road, we had been traveling for two and a half hours - a journey that usually takes a fifth of that time. Slowly, I steered the Belgrano to the side of the road, gently pressing on the brakes and trying to remember which way one had to turn the wheel to get out of a skid. My friend and I removed our noses from the windscreen and turned to face each other. We didn't know whether to laugh or cry. A voice from the boot piped up, 'Are we nearly home, mum?'
'Won't be long now,' I said wearily, as I took note of the snow settling thickly on the road ahead, and preparing myself for a long haul. The journey that normally took us an hour and three quarters, lasted five long hours that night. Strangely, the boys in the boot never requested that space again.
Things Noticed While Walking in Snow by Sharon Black
A single car’s tracks: two ribbons
unrolled on a cutting sheet.
Bird prints by a hawthorn bush:
a smattering of ancient Greek;
discreet scars on a marble beauty’s thighs.
A curtain of ice over bulging bedrock.
Your hand balled round mine.
Fields spread out like a bridal gown.
Power lines plotting perspective.
Through scrawled birches, two donkeys:
vigilant, freeze-framed,
the female’s bray muffled by the cold.
Your hands in your pockets, mine by my side.
An absence of words.
The river, giddy and gleaming:
a dark vein trying to resuscitate
the ghost of land.
And always the split duvet of sky, emptying itself over us
over and over
to cushion our fall.
I knew I didn't have time to write a poem this week, so I started looking for something suitable. I liked the imagery in this one, and the fact that it paints a picture in stark contrast to my disastrous car journey.
Thanks for reading. Jill
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