Snow go

It all comes down to credibility. Amongst the list of those you would not normally trust to tell the truth are of course investment bankers, estate agents, politicians, lawyers and, until yesterday, the weather man. In the glorious early winter morning sunrise I set off for London. It was bitterly cold for the UK even at what many northern europeans would regard as mild at minus 4.5 degrees centigrade. The car windscreen was easily scraped clear of a thin veneer of hoar frost but within a couple of miles and after catching the wet mist spray from a lorry slipstream I was peering out through fine mud and with my screen washers well and truly frozen up. The wipers did their best to abrade the deposits and at regular intervals over the next 200 miles I could hear the straining electrics for the wash/wipe function but nothing emerged. In the strengthening but still watery morning sun the windscreen was streaky and distracting but, against all best sense and guidance I carried on southwards. The below zero temperature kept any frost moisture locked in to the ground and there was no possibility of catching any puddle splash to cleanse the screen. Where were all those motorists with badly angled over-roof squirting screen wash nozzles when you needed them? The journey was quite a regular one for me with the M1 motorway winning out over the slightly shorter A1 as these two arteries of the UK road network do eventually merge around Hendon in North London .With my destination a west London postcode this was the best point at which to jump onto the merry-go-round that is the Hanger Lane gyratory. All along the 3 hour drive there were regular gantry mounted screens bearing the apocalyptic message of 'Severe Weather Warning forecast for today'. On such a beautiful and calm morning I felt that the combined budget of the Highways Agency and Meteorological Office was being frittered away on scaremongering. A suitably vague reference to adverse weather which could be justified by perhaps a small snow squall in an uninhabited area of the Outer Hebrides, about midnight and only witnessed by sheep with exceptional night vision. From horizon to horizon there were no ominous banked clouds and in the absolute stillness of air no clue as to from what direction the 'Day after Tomorrow' scenario would commence.

The start of the return journey from London was in the same wintery but bright and dry conditions. I had rung home and up north there was no actual snow but it was trying to reach the optimum climatic conditions to do so. As per usual and even with sat nav I was on the wrong corridor out of London and this was confirmed as I drove through the almost theatrical footlights of the approach beacons to Heathrow Airport where it is passed by the M40. The voice on the sat nav ordered me to take some fork or other and I found myself on the clockwise section of the M25 and looking at my favourite bit of graffitti on the bridge parapet of " Give Peas a Chance". With Heathrow just over my right shoulder the regular traffic news spot on the car radio announced that 30% of flights out of the airport were being suspended because of expectations of severe weather including about 12cm of snow. Was this another example of planning for armageddon in order to second guess the usual recriminations for a badly prepared strategy for a bit of adverse weather? I thought so and felt sorry for Julian and Jocasta, Hugh and Gemima and Lloyd and Franklin whose plans for their ski holiday in Klosters were now in jeopardy. There would certainly be strong questions in Parliamnent in the forthcoming week on how the UK could resist invasion by enemy forces and yet roll over and surrender helplessly to a sprinkling of snow. Then my headlights in the enclosing dusk of 5pm picked out the first few specks of sleety snow. That was just before Luton. It was a speculative flurry and was short lived on my now washable windscreen and with no persistence on the hard shoulder. Traffic was moving well across the three and part four lanes at the average 70mph to 80mph. The route was busy with shoppers returning home from Brent Cross , HGV's either fully laden or expected at the distribution centre to fill up for the next trip, a few National Express coaches and those looking forward to getting back up north to civilisation. Within 10 miles the motorway was reduced to half its lanes as the gritting lorries gave up and the snow ploughs came out. At Northampton the road north from London had reverted to its 17th Century format of a single track, rutted and unpredictable. The only two things absent for total Georgian authenticity were toll booths and highwaymen (I will not elaborate on the equivalent role played by motorway services at this point). At now half or lower than normal motorway speeds the journey turned into a slow motion nightmare. My brain's perception of the journey however was still at 70mph. So what I thought was the junction for Derby was in fact only for Coventry. The complete white-out beyond any almost surreal lit sections of the motorway prevented the comfort of identifying any of the usual landmarks. On the dark sections I regularly checked my rear view mirror for a closely following pack of wolves. 30mph in driving snow feels like 60mph. It is like experiencing tunnel vision and can be very disorientating. I was concentrating hard on keeping the car within the tramlines in the snow created by the lone vehicle ahead. Of course there were the show-offs in their expensive SUV's doing their own thing in what may have been the fast lane on a better day. I was startled by a fast moving coach as it ploughed past in a mini avalanche. The jolly red faced image with peaked cap and uniform on the back of the bus looked scared by the manouvre and a bit embarrased that for a meagre fare of only £5 each for the handful of passengers on board his driver was committed to doing mega speeds. My intense concentration was only distracted when red tail lights up the road twinkled and turned into headlights. Another vehicle had spun either in an attempt to switch into another furrow of a lane or through braking too hard with bald tyres. The anticipated 3 hour return journey was now at the 5 hour point when the first reference to Hull appeared on the list of northern cities on the roadside signage. 55 miles. Another 90 minutes at least unless I could trade my Passat for a dog sled team but unlikely at Sheffield. Most of the long convoy of traffic was dissipated by the M180 spur but conditions were worsening with the tyre ruts becoming frozen. Just past Doncaster I had no tail lights in sight and no following headlights. I was now the pioneer for anyone travelling to Hull and others would have to take my lead although with the heavy and drifting snow flurries any trench I carved out was soon blurring into only a faint shallow tyre imprint. I took to pushing my speed up a bit, now 35mph, to try to catch up with any fellow travellers. At the long Thorne straight, a fully exposed flat section of the motorway I found some red lenses to follow. It was difficult to judge a safe distance to benefit from the road grooves but yet leave enough space to panic brake if necessary. Although down to one track lane only this snaked across the whole width of the road dependant on judging how deep the snow was. I too was being followed and the new convoy wound its way across South Yorkshire relentlessly but very slowly and cautiously. The merging with the M62 involved taking up the correct lane and traversing the almost glacier sized wall of snow to do so was sobering. The traction control light on my dashboard was flashing on and off as I struggled to get any grip. I was not looking forward to the ascent of the south face of the Ouse Bridge which was now looming up ahead. My strategy was to try to get as far away as possible from the parapet crash barriers but also have enough speed to get up and over the slope. The popular line of the leading vehicles was as I had hoped but brake lights ahead were frantic. I urged aloud, for my own benefit, more speed and less bunching up for our group especially as the procession of cars behind me were perilously close. The summit was reached and in more relaxed times I would have claimed it for Hull but the descent on the other side needed my utmost attention. Beyond the bridge it is flat and featureless but fully exposed to the increasing wind blown snow showers. All of the vehicles were now guaranteed Hull bound and we settled down to just getting to our respective homes. The lead car was a worry. If it had been a horse it would have certainly been shot. The driver, but a unisex silhouette, was hesitant and nervous about exceeding even 25mph. This caused more bunching and brake twitching than before. A couple of times in almost a stall situation on a slight incline near the Humber Bridge all our our convoy had to take evasive action and dive for cover in a very unsightly manner. It was carnage on the road. Fortunately there was no impact with other cars or barriers. My last obstacle was the slip road at Hessle. There was no precedent for this. A whole new protocol was required. I floored it and the car slipped and skidded up the incline. I was gathering good momentum and did not attempt to even slow down or brake at the next two busy roundabouts. They were, thankfully, clear of traffic. The traffic lights close to home changed to red and I prepared to slide to a halt but my journey over the preceeding 6 hours continued to be blessed by the appearance of green for go. I nearly wrapped the car around my gatepost on entering the snow filled driveway but I was home. I fell through the front door, exhausted and through my snow-impaired sight I could see my beautiful wife and handsome son as though a glowing ready-brek vision of sanctuary and safety.