We are in a period of freak weather. This is global warming folks. Get used to it. Or rather, don’t get used to it because global warming means being unable to predict the weather by the seasons. The press have avoided mentioning it because it’s unpopular. They are more likely to give space to climate change deniers who claim to remember weather like this from their childhoods, as we all do but not in March. This cold snap has been caused by a sudden warming of the North Pole (to above freezing), which has pushed the cold air and snow towards us. Then a storm, which we are getting more of, has hit that cold and given us even more snow. Emily and the Beast from the East, the press are calling it, which is so much more poetic than any scientific data could manage.
By Sunday night train companies had started to cancel services, while outdoor types were in their garden taking pictures of daffodils, oblivious to what was to come.
The snow started on Monday. Just a little. A few flakes settling on the dog’s back. People had seen the weather forecast or the tabloid headlines and were either terrified or determined that it wasn’t going to beat them. Tesco sold out of white bread, baked beans and toilet roll. The evening musical event was cancelled so I rang all my pupils to reinstate their lessons. I collected my son from the station. He was wearing shorts and wondering what all the fuss was about. That evening it started to snow properly but by the morning most roads were clear and schools opened. Snow showers, throughout the day were localised and although driving on the hill my mum lives on was difficult, by the time we got to the hospital there were green fields. It was like April showers had decided to fall as snow. We were told it was cold and that there was a minus fifteen wind chill but our bodies disagreed. Everyone I met on my walks said, “It’s not as cold as they said it would be.”
I had slept badly, worrying about what the weather might bring and how that would impact on my Mum’s cancer treatment, so at the end of my teaching I confessed that I was hoping for a snow day on Wednesday. I really felt I needed a day off to get myself together.
“I might do a snow dance,” I told a colleague.
It snowed overnight and the ground was full of beautiful, soft powdery snow that someone had laced with glitter. I misread a tweet as, “The glitterers have been out tonight,” and thought that explained everything. Who knew the council were so kind to put glitter in the snow to make everyone happy?
And people were happy. Schools closed and people got a ‘snow day’. Kids and parents walked the streets, tried to build snowmen or throw snowballs (they couldn’t - it was too powdery) and went for breakfast in cafes that they still expected to be open. My son, now too old for snow angels and snowmen helped me clear the drive before I took him back to the station. It turns out that trains are only scared of the thought of snow. It was a beautiful day with clear blue sky and birds chattering in bushes.
The next day, the snow was still there and schools closed again. It kept snowing but the glitter had gone. The wind blew snow into your eyes as you walked. Birds stopped singing and when they appeared had puffed their feathers up so much that they looked like little owls. The snow was still powdery and dry but everything felt gloomier. The daffodils looked dead and withered. Snow was starting to drift. It floated across paths like a displaced sea creature. Walking was a solitary experience. The Long Suffering Husband suggested that the Zombie apocalypse had arrived.
Tractors with snow ploughs fixed to the front trundled the salt filled roads but as it started to snow again it wasn’t enough. Police blocked hill roads with blue flashing lights and barriers. It’s got colder, the wind stopped nipping and bared it’s full viscous teeth, taking bites out of cheeks and lips, leaving them cracked and raw. Everyone’s heating broke down and from the comfort of their own home they took to Twitter to moan that the gas engineers weren’t working hard enough. The wind brought hypocrisy. They did manage to get to my mum and most other vulnerable customers
despite the closed hill roads.
Schools closed for another day. Parents got cabin fever and decided that they hated their children. Roads next to fields were blocked by snow drifts and the river had started to freeze. Our huge, tidal estuary, served by two big rivers was freezing. There were icebergs in the middle and around the edge were steps of ice, where each tide at frozen at a different level. The swans looked at the dog hopefully. “Have you got any bread?” they asked him. He just pointed to the sign that said that bread was bad and shouldn’t be fed, although he did agree that it was a bread kind of day.
As I left the park a policeman asked me if I’d seen any problems in there. I told him about the ice and the swans and lack of people.
Stuff continued to fall from the sky but it was changing. There were small round pellets of snow, which got harder. Then icicles fell from the sky. Long, sharp, clear bits of ice.
“Is it hail, Mummy?” asked a boy, pulling his red plastic sled behind him like a kite in the wind.
Mummy wasn’t sure but reluctantly suggested going home for hot chocolate and another four hours of Thomas the Tank Engine. The dog made me promise to keep walking and not make him watch any programme about trains. We walked to collect my mum's prescription. The weather hadn't made the pharmacy any less grumpy or more efficient.
"I've found one item, do you want me to look for the other one?" the woman asked. I resisted sarcasm.
On the way home, the snow changed again and became tiny miniature rice grains. It was softer, heavier and stickier and deadened the noise on the streets as it landed. By the evening walk the rice grains were bigger and started to settle on the roads. Cars slid around, wide eyed drivers at the wheel. One tipped onto it's roof. People started to leave their homes, desperate to collect some milk and cocoa powder. It had warmed slightly. The birds weren't joining the humans and the swans had ventured onto the ice at the pond, only to get their feet stuck. The snow continued as we ate our dinner and our bedtime walk had the magical quality of the snow we were used to. This is the kind of snow that is we enough to play with and disappears the next day. The children knew. The zombie apocalypse was over and children had dragged their parents outside to make snow angels, trow snowballs and go sledging. The birds peeped out of their bush hiding places and thought these children to be fools. The dog licked ears. "Angels taste nice," he said.
Over the weekend the great thaw started. Swans waited patiently for their feet to be freed. Seagulls swooped and squalled, herons fed on sleepy frozen fish from garden ponds and goldfinches risked flying in front of dog walkers in their excitement. Roads collapsed and the rains started in biblical proportions. Chionophobics could leave the house and pluvophiles were happy.
The dog and I have walked 40 miles to get these few words, so maybe I'll stick to collecting rude words and innuendos from social media.
Tractors with snow ploughs fixed to the front trundled the salt filled roads but as it started to snow again it wasn’t enough. Police blocked hill roads with blue flashing lights and barriers. It’s got colder, the wind stopped nipping and bared it’s full viscous teeth, taking bites out of cheeks and lips, leaving them cracked and raw. Everyone’s heating broke down and from the comfort of their own home they took to Twitter to moan that the gas engineers weren’t working hard enough. The wind brought hypocrisy. They did manage to get to my mum and most other vulnerable customers
despite the closed hill roads.
Schools closed for another day. Parents got cabin fever and decided that they hated their children. Roads next to fields were blocked by snow drifts and the river had started to freeze. Our huge, tidal estuary, served by two big rivers was freezing. There were icebergs in the middle and around the edge were steps of ice, where each tide at frozen at a different level. The swans looked at the dog hopefully. “Have you got any bread?” they asked him. He just pointed to the sign that said that bread was bad and shouldn’t be fed, although he did agree that it was a bread kind of day.
As I left the park a policeman asked me if I’d seen any problems in there. I told him about the ice and the swans and lack of people.
“Is it hail, Mummy?” asked a boy, pulling his red plastic sled behind him like a kite in the wind.
Mummy wasn’t sure but reluctantly suggested going home for hot chocolate and another four hours of Thomas the Tank Engine. The dog made me promise to keep walking and not make him watch any programme about trains. We walked to collect my mum's prescription. The weather hadn't made the pharmacy any less grumpy or more efficient.
"I've found one item, do you want me to look for the other one?" the woman asked. I resisted sarcasm.
On the way home, the snow changed again and became tiny miniature rice grains. It was softer, heavier and stickier and deadened the noise on the streets as it landed. By the evening walk the rice grains were bigger and started to settle on the roads. Cars slid around, wide eyed drivers at the wheel. One tipped onto it's roof. People started to leave their homes, desperate to collect some milk and cocoa powder. It had warmed slightly. The birds weren't joining the humans and the swans had ventured onto the ice at the pond, only to get their feet stuck. The snow continued as we ate our dinner and our bedtime walk had the magical quality of the snow we were used to. This is the kind of snow that is we enough to play with and disappears the next day. The children knew. The zombie apocalypse was over and children had dragged their parents outside to make snow angels, trow snowballs and go sledging. The birds peeped out of their bush hiding places and thought these children to be fools. The dog licked ears. "Angels taste nice," he said.
The dog and I have walked 40 miles to get these few words, so maybe I'll stick to collecting rude words and innuendos from social media.
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