Here Comes Treble: What's Good About English Weather?
...Although this was supposedly the warmest English winter on record, and the warmest January in living memory, it was more than cold enough for me. Gloomy skies hung down somewhere around my chin, and outdoors I was never warm enough, no matter how many clothes I wore. Indoors, I found myself stripping off layer after layer of woollies! Having lived all my life in South Africa, where we huddle over free-standing heaters during cold winter evenings, and dress for weather that is similar indoors and out, I could not adjust to the contrasts of the bitterly cold outdoors and the centrally heated homes in England!...
Isabel Bradley and her husband Leon left their South African home to spend some time with relatives in England this month - and the English weather was less than welcoming.
We went to England in mid-winter: the birth of Leon’s first grandchild, Mia Amelie, in early January was a siren call we could not resist.
Leaving Johannesburg for distant England, our departure was delayed for fifteen minutes by storm winds and rain. When we finally took off, the ride into the skies was extremely bumpy, in fact, the entire twelve-hour trip felt as though we were driving over rocky roads. When the Captain announced our imminent descent to Gatwick Airport, we felt as if our breakfast had turned to purée.
The ‘plane seemed to go down extremely slowly; even, occasionally, to stop and hover in mid-air, which was rather frightening – passenger ‘planes are not designed to hover. Thankfully, the jet engines pushed us forward and downward again each time, through dense layers of soggy cloud.
When they finally cleared from the windows the airport lights were frighteningly close beneath us, rushing past much too fast. My hands clutched the armrests; my only thoughts were, “if we crash, can I maintain control of my bodily functions long enough to get to a restroom?” Breath caught in my throat; I panted like a terrified puppy. The wheels touched down, bounced, and the ‘plane skidded in the howling gale; touched down again, was blown, skidding sideways again, before finally being corrected and moving slowly and safely, nose pointing forward, along the runway.
Every passenger and crew member cheered – then laughed self-consciously. I was just about in tears of relief: now I knew I would comfortably reach the nearest restroom after we disembarked.
Our hire-car was parked in the open; as we opened the door, the gale slammed it closed, almost crushing fingers that were hastily removed. Workers on the building site opposite struggled to hold open a gate as a truck drove in and one man, laughing, chased his yellow hard-hat as it tumbled off his head and down the road. Most South African workers would have refused to work in such weather.
The gale that welcomed us to England killed fourteen people across Britain; trucks and trees were blown over causing fatal accidents and motorway grid-locks that lasted hours; walls fell, crushing several people and causing chaos.
It took us more than three hours to complete the expected one hour drive to Leon’s daughter’s home. Viv and her husband, Richard, and their new-born daughter, Mia, live in the lovely village of Shenley in Hertfordshire north of London. From their windows, there is a view over open fields and wooded copses, to a long, straight line where miniature vehicles speed along the distant M25. Their beautiful home is at the top of a hill, exposed to every breeze – and gale – that blows.
Although this was supposedly the warmest English winter on record, and the warmest January in living memory, it was more than cold enough for me. Gloomy skies hung down somewhere around my chin, and outdoors I was never warm enough, no matter how many clothes I wore. Indoors, I found myself stripping off layer after layer of woollies! Having lived all my life in South Africa, where we huddle over free-standing heaters during cold winter evenings, and dress for weather that is similar indoors and out, I could not adjust to the contrasts of the bitterly cold outdoors and the centrally heated homes in England!
On the morning that we were to leave Shenley, Leon called me out of the shower: he insisted I go to the window immediately, dripping and wrapping myself in a giant towel. He opened the curtains on a fairy-tale world, which was covered in soft layer of fluffy snow: tree branches were etched in white, cars snuggled under soft blankets, the paving was patterned by the black tracks of a vehicle that had driven away earlier.
The drive on the M25 past Heathrow and onto the M23 was surprisingly easy. There were no traffic jams, everyone drove carefully – and the trees at the roadside were breathtakingly beautiful in their snow-clothes.
After lunch we drove to Windsor to meet friends for tea; the sun had melted the snow and the fairy-tale countryside had vanished, replaced by ghostly woodlands and green fields with an occasional furrow etched in white.
Later, in the dark, we drove to Brighton, where it was cold and dry. Next morning there was once again a dusting of snow on roofs, trees and cars; it became colder and gloomier with snow and sleet showers. Leon and I sat on the warm side of double-glazed windows, enjoying the central heating.
By the time we returned to Gatwick Airport several days later, the weather had settled; the skies were clear, the air still. We were grateful for a smooth and uneventful ride home.
The English winter, after a rough greeting, treated us rather well this year. We hope it continues to behave just as well in the coming months.
Until next week, “here comes Treble!”
Isabel Bradley
Copyright Reserved ©
