Freakosystem
We live in a bizarre part of Kent. An Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty and close to a very special ancient woodland, our village in the North Downs experiences extreme weather, even when the rest of Kent is relatively unscathed by environmental factors.
Today, we're snowed in. I know the rest of Kent has suffered as a result of the Beast from the East - I've seen the social media posts: excited children with questionably formed snow-things; travel chaos and stories of hours stranded on M-x (a little highway algebra reference there); and parents suffering from a potent cocktail of cabin fever and anxiety that there's more on the way and they'll have the kids again tomorrow - but ours bought vodka and solyanka, and has settled down to watch the Bolshoi dance Swan Lake. It's here for a while.
For our village, it's less "how will I get to work" and more "how will I get off the drive?" Even if we do get out via the every-which-way-is-treacherous routes to civilisation, any pleasure we may feel as a result of escaping is tempered by the very real possibility that we won't actually make it home again.
One route was closed for eight months last year, either as a result of flooding or the repairs they necessitated. One day, we found a poor lady who had driven under the bridge thinking it just was very low, only to discover the road surface was in fact the surface of a puddle deep enough to reach half way up the door of her 4x4. We took her home, let her warm through with sweet tea and biscuits, gave her dry clothes, helped her arrange recovery of her vehicle ... and never heard from her again. That wouldn't happen with a villager.
Our villagers aren't the type to stop talking when you enter the local drinking establishment, but we're still a tight-knit community. Some locals have lived and will inevitably die in this village, and it's a beautiful place to spend your years. The community spirit here can be phenomenal. The last time we had snow like this, I thought I was going to kill my family as we negotiated one of the hills home. My husband managed to stop the car before we slid too far too fast, but the journey back up the other side saw (or rather smelt) the clutch burn out. We abandoned the car near a local barn, took temporary refuge with a family of strangers, then set out to walk the mile home - carrying our 7-month old and a box of veg. Along the way, we passed villagers waiting patiently with and without tractors and all terrain vehicles, ready to help people along the road Sherpa-style. One neighbour would drive the 3 miles to the closest shop on his mini-tractor and bring back essentials for several of us, and there's always someone willing to share.
The local authority did "grit" our road once. They didn't anticipate someone who knew that you can't spread grit at that speed. Now, our local boys head out and plough the main routes in their tractors - good eggs our neighbours.
We know when it's bad because our immediate neighbour stays put. It's good advice to follow his lead - he's lived in these parts for many years and has an uncanny ability to read the local environment. We still have to witness some who thumb their noses at prevailing weather conditions and maintain course and speed for their destination. I've been chuckling all morning after witnessing a young man strutting down the path, only to hit a slippery bit and do a terrible impression of Fred Astaire being electrocuted before falling over... twice!
Our weather here is so very different to even a mile away that I feel obliged to validate any "won't make it to school/work/playdate/etc" claim with pictures of proof. So I've taken plenty - I just wish I'd had the phone with me when this morning's tap dance took place.
Today, we're snowed in. I know the rest of Kent has suffered as a result of the Beast from the East - I've seen the social media posts: excited children with questionably formed snow-things; travel chaos and stories of hours stranded on M-x (a little highway algebra reference there); and parents suffering from a potent cocktail of cabin fever and anxiety that there's more on the way and they'll have the kids again tomorrow - but ours bought vodka and solyanka, and has settled down to watch the Bolshoi dance Swan Lake. It's here for a while.
For our village, it's less "how will I get to work" and more "how will I get off the drive?" Even if we do get out via the every-which-way-is-treacherous routes to civilisation, any pleasure we may feel as a result of escaping is tempered by the very real possibility that we won't actually make it home again.
One route was closed for eight months last year, either as a result of flooding or the repairs they necessitated. One day, we found a poor lady who had driven under the bridge thinking it just was very low, only to discover the road surface was in fact the surface of a puddle deep enough to reach half way up the door of her 4x4. We took her home, let her warm through with sweet tea and biscuits, gave her dry clothes, helped her arrange recovery of her vehicle ... and never heard from her again. That wouldn't happen with a villager.
Our villagers aren't the type to stop talking when you enter the local drinking establishment, but we're still a tight-knit community. Some locals have lived and will inevitably die in this village, and it's a beautiful place to spend your years. The community spirit here can be phenomenal. The last time we had snow like this, I thought I was going to kill my family as we negotiated one of the hills home. My husband managed to stop the car before we slid too far too fast, but the journey back up the other side saw (or rather smelt) the clutch burn out. We abandoned the car near a local barn, took temporary refuge with a family of strangers, then set out to walk the mile home - carrying our 7-month old and a box of veg. Along the way, we passed villagers waiting patiently with and without tractors and all terrain vehicles, ready to help people along the road Sherpa-style. One neighbour would drive the 3 miles to the closest shop on his mini-tractor and bring back essentials for several of us, and there's always someone willing to share.
The local authority did "grit" our road once. They didn't anticipate someone who knew that you can't spread grit at that speed. Now, our local boys head out and plough the main routes in their tractors - good eggs our neighbours.
We know when it's bad because our immediate neighbour stays put. It's good advice to follow his lead - he's lived in these parts for many years and has an uncanny ability to read the local environment. We still have to witness some who thumb their noses at prevailing weather conditions and maintain course and speed for their destination. I've been chuckling all morning after witnessing a young man strutting down the path, only to hit a slippery bit and do a terrible impression of Fred Astaire being electrocuted before falling over... twice!
Our weather here is so very different to even a mile away that I feel obliged to validate any "won't make it to school/work/playdate/etc" claim with pictures of proof. So I've taken plenty - I just wish I'd had the phone with me when this morning's tap dance took place.
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Thanks for ranting!