Welcome to the world of
Michael G Kimber
Michael G Kimber
The Nightwriter
The Trojan horse
The relatively cold and snowy winter of 2005 going into 2006 such as it was, reminded me of another winter. Winters in England are not what they used to be; global Warming has seen to that. No longer do we suffer the weeks of snow and ice that used to be the norm, or those occasional winters when Jack Frost’s icy grip lasted for months.
But there was one such in Nineteen Sixty Three, when Scotland, the north of England; most of the midlands and much of the south were covered with natures white blanket for nearly two months. A great deal of snow fell that winter, though it wasn’t the heaviest in terms of snow volume; the year of Forty Seven for example saw a greater snowfall, but because it had not been as cold it did not stay for so long.
Recent winters have been mild, but the cold snap early this year, and some snowy pictures on TV was a reminder of how it used to be years ago. However, it was the chance discovery of an old photograph of me standing at the side of a Trojan Van which took me right back to Sixty Three. For there I was, standing by the old red van, miles from anywhere, waist deep in snow.
That winter had been unusual, but not, as I said, because of record volumes of snow, but simply that it covered the country for so long. There had indeed been plenty that winter, but not quite enough to go into the record books. So what was it that made this year so different?
That winter had been unusual, but not, as I said, because of record volumes of snow, but simply that it covered the country for so long. There had indeed been plenty that winter, but not quite enough to go into the record books. So what was it that made this year so different?
What indeed? It was the continued presence of Jack Frost, for rarely during this period did the temperature raise itself above zero.
Most people that year had at least one snow story to tell, but time, as well as being the great healer, is also the betrayer of memory. How many thousands of these stories have been forgotten; lost forever as climate change has gradually taken from us those annual visions of winter wonderland. How many more, one wonders, have gone for all eternity to the grave. But some survive, and this one is mine.
At the time I worked as a salesman for a tea company, whose distribution system was based on a thousand little red vans, and a depot in every town. Nothing unusual about that you may be thinking. Nothing much I would answer; except to say that the vans were almost all Trojans. At this point, men of a certain age will become misty eyed; some will smile and some will laugh. For the Trojan van was the stuff of legend, and I am sure that there will be as many Trojan stories as there were tales of the snow. And no doubt, because that unique vehicle long ago disappeared from the scene, most of them will have suffered the same fate.
It was Christmas of Sixty Two when it started, December of that year having been particularly stormy, and many people in Scotland and the north enjoyed a white Christmas that ran into the New Year. Little did they know that they were to enjoy the snow for a good while to come, and, as it spread to cover the whole country, so was everyone else.
Now the people who knew said it was not as bad - in actual snow fall measurements - as some other years, most recently 1947 - but crucially, it also turned out to be the coldest winter for over 200 years. That meant that with each fresh fall, snow was laid on snow, and with almost no thawing during January and February it just piled up high and became rock hard.
No one I think, could describe it better than Christina Rossetti, who, a hundred years earlier, had famously penned these words.
In the bleak mid-winter, frosty winds may moan;
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone.
Snow had fallen, snow on snow; snow on snow.
In the bleak mid-winter; long ago.
(I think you will know the tune)
So it was that I was dispatched, with a promise of some help, to do an emergency run from York to the coastal town of Whitby which had been virtually isolated from the outside word for some some weeks. The hardy folk of Whitby were used to being cut off - surrounded as they are by the high ground of the North Yorkshire moors - but not usually for quite so long. This had been a difficult time for them, with much hardship stoically endured; shortages of many commodities were reported, with little alternative than to put up with it. Not least of these deficiencies was the nations favourite beverage, the cuppa.
Then, after that long period of depravation, the word got out that a channel had been cut through the deep snow that covered the moors, and some vital commodities were finally getting through. The siege was over; for now at least.
Leaving my relatively safe duties in Leeds I drove my Trojan van to York with instructions to fill it to the gunnels with tea, and from there to make the hazardous crossing of the North Yorkshire Moors.
Thus started what was to become a journey of adventure. A journey during which I was to swing between the highs and lows of ecstasy and despair, and which at one point presented me with a personal predicament the like of which I had not before had to deal.
The journey to the moors was not remarkable, in spite the idiosyncratic nature of the vehicle I was driving. Those who look back with affection for the ‘Trojan’ will remember its arresting qualities, and its unique characteristics. As a workhorse it was robust and strong, but it definitely had a mind of its own and, I’m sure they will agree, if you were not prepared to do it its way, you were very likely not going to do it at all.
First of all it was necessary to start the damn thing. In the middle of a hot summer day that would be a doddle. The Trojan loved to bask in the sun. But at six O’clock on a cold winter morning, patience of a saint-like quality was required. Smooth talking would not do it, any more than a seaman’s curse. Long minutes keeping the engine heater button depressed were required, until ones fingers were numb with fatigue and cold. Even then it was an even bet that one would need to resort to the start-up handle. And Lord help you if the battery went flat, because then it was the starting handle or nothing. That was an arm aching, back breaking task if ever there was one. Either way, liberal doses of some evil smelling spray were required, squirted directly into its air jet, at which point it often became or race to see if the engine cut in before you cut out.
Remarkably, regardless of these inherent difficulties, it would eventually leap into action. Leap might seem like a strange word in this context, but it did seem as though once it had decided to come to life it was impatient to get on with it, revving and rattling like a van possessed.
The day started well enough if ridiculously early, and by Seven AM I pulled up at the York depot, where a local colleague was waiting to help me. He was twenty years my senior, but fortunately very fit, and between us we filled the van to its absolute limit. No doubt it was packed beyond what might have been deemed to be safe, but we knew that tea stocks in the Whitby warehouse were down to dust and every ounce was vital.
I was pleased to have a companion. I knew it was likely to be a long day, and some company would be welcome; and it would mean (I thought) that he could do his share of the driving. We set off in high spirits, and with a certain feeling of excitement, and before long we were approaching the moors. Beyond the picturesque and be-castled town of Pickering the land rises steeply, and soon we were confronted by a depth of snow we had not envisaged. Pictures on the TV had not conveyed the sense of complete obliteration.
This is not perhaps the time or place to compare the relative merits of one wild locality against another. Suffice it to say that its claim to be a place of wild natural beauty is as valid as any other which might come to mind - Exmoor maybe, or Snowdon, or the mountains of the Lake District. But you will, dear reader, if you have been lucky enough to have visited this vast wilderness, have a mental picture of the place as you read, and will remember its beauty. From rocky streams in hidden valleys, purple topped tracts of heather running to distant horizons; and sky’s so big as to be infinite.
That was not the view however that confronted us. All we could see was mile upon mile of snow, often head high, and frequently so high that we could not see over it. The road for the most part was little more than a track, sometimes little wider than the van, and often not where the actual road really was, the new temporary cuttings having missed its supposed route, hidden as it was under countless tons of solid snow. The cutters simply cut through where they could, and making headway was painstaking. Our earlier feeling of excitement was now somewhat subdued.
Here and there however, at the top of a rise perhaps, or in a place where the road had enjoyed some natural protection from the drifts, we would be presented with a snowy vista, a quilt of many shades reflecting the blues and grays in the sky. Sometimes a valley would come into view, or a swathe of the moor might be opened up to us. The fields, white and deep, and yet somehow distinctly separated by snow covered walls and hedges, were laid out before us as in the most beautiful of tableaus. Views were breathtaking, and yet, as there was little evidence of livestock, somehow sterile.
It was so different from the roads on the flat low lying plain behind us. These had been reasonably clear, where the recent snowfall had been modest; and the driving had been, if less than easy, at least manageable . Up here the challenge was to keep going, and as one of the Trojans characteristics was sensitive steering, that was not at all easy. Moreover, the fully loaded van served only to exacerbate the condition. Cautious steering and over steering, correcting and over correcting was the order of the day.
By now I was tired, and felt the need for a break, and asked my colleague if he would care to take over for a while.
“Not on your Nellie” he answered. His actual words were succinct and brief; somewhat more to the point than that - just two words if I remember correctly. But his forthright message was clear. Then he added; perhaps a form of mild contrition “I’m here to help - but you’re stuck with the driving.”
So there it was, and not by any stretch of the imagination did I expect that it was going to be fun, especially, when we attained the higher reaches of the moor and found that the overnight snowfall had been significantly heavier. Now, at these higher and more exposed levels the driving was decidedly worse; we were soon aware that our quest would be, if anything, more demanding than we had imagined. We viewed our earlier sense of adventure with some misgivings, but we were committed to our task and as the question of turning back could not arise, we carried on regardless. We continued to be rewarded as occasional vistas of incredible beauty spread out around us, displaying natures artistic hand at work in a way that I had never seen before. At those times all the irritations and difficulties seemed less important, and even my normally articulate companion was silent. It was simply overwhelming.
Progress had been steady though slow, but that was soon to change for once again it started to snow heavily; and the going reduced to painfully slow, and we were far from our journey's end. There had been surprisingly little traffic, and now, in worsening conditions and fading light, we were beginning to feel somewhat isolated; and more than a little concerned.
My previously ebullient companion was now silent. Incredibly, when there really was something worth saying he seemed to have been struck dumb, for suddenly there was something to shout about. As we approached a gully we could see three or four vans waiting in the snow cutting at its far side. Despite the falling snow we could see that they were facing us, and that they were not moving. There was obviously a problem, and though there were no other vehicles to be seen on our side of the gully I dare not drive into it. I had no choice but to get out of the van and walk.
When I got there I could see that it was not a crash but a blockage. A small flat backed lorry had skidded, and was wedged front and back in the six foot high ice wall at either side of the cut. At any other time and anywhere else this would have been a nuisance; a mere inconvenience. But here and now it far more serious, possibly life threatening, for not only had it stopped all movement for us all, the heavy snow was laying thickly, and if we did not get moving quickly, we were in danger of being trapped overnight. A daunting prospect to be sure.
Some attempts had been made to move the lorry, but so far without success. Another rope was found, and I was persuaded to enter the lions den with my van and tie up to its front. I was not at all happy about this, but could not offer a better plan. Soon, with ropes at front and back attached at diagonal corners of the wedged lorry, and with every available person pushing, a frantic tug-of-war commenced. Luckily the strategy worked, and after a few false starts, and a broken rope which had to be knotted, we finally managed to free the trapped vehicle. I was not sorry to see it on its way, or to find that we were next to go in order to clear the narrow cutting. Little time was lost in casual chatting, as everyone was keen to continue their journeys and get off the moor while they could.
That was the last major incident, though the rest of the journey continued at a snails pace. A combination of the thick clogging snow, and the Trojans desire to go its own way, regardless of the consequences, brought us to the brink more than a few times, but we made it. By the time we got to the little depot in Whitby it was dark, and we were cold and hungry. Relieved to be sure, and feeling very stained, but we were safe. Now all we had to do was unload the van; an hours work at least.
But what then? Neither of us had given any thought to where we might stay. The depot keeper was long gone, unaware of the difficulties we had been faced, and had assumed that we were not coming after all as there had been no way to contact him. Luckily it had been arranged to leave a key with a lady at a house nearby; a ‘just in case’ arrangement that proved to be a godsend. This had at least enabled us to carry on and get the van unloaded, and when the lady heard of our adventure and of our predicament, she first offered us a meal, which we accepted gratefully, and a bed for the night. This too was an offer we could not refuse until we realized that she literally meant a bed. One bed between the two of us.
I was not, it has to be said, a man with vast experience of an intimate nature with the opposite sex, still less with my own, so the thought of sharing a bed with another man was, to say the least, daunting. Not that there was any reason to believe that I had anything to fear from my older colleague. I don’t doubt that he was dealing with similar misgivings, but we had found ourselves caught up in an unusual situation, and in any event we were both exhausted from the demands of the day.
It might have been a sudden gust as a strong wind blew, or the driving snow that came shooting in the open door from the dark inhospitality, but we accepted our fate, and the bed. Drained of any other emotions than the desire to sleep, it seemed therefore an offer we could not refuse.
The thought of going out into the storm again, trudging around the town trying to find a B & B at ten thirty was too much for either of us. We knew also that tomorrow we would be facing another test when we tried to make the return journey, so on this occasion normal conventions and proprieties would have to be dispensed with.
‘Tomorrow’ came far to soon, and it was still dark when an alarm clock awakened us to a new day. We had both survived the night undisturbed and un-accosted. Ablutions were performed and breakfast was partaken before grateful thanks and warm goodbyes were given to a lady we hardly knew, but who had generously provided us with warmth, food, and shelter.
It was clear that more snow had fallen overnight, and when we reached the depot our van was wearing its new white coat. It looked warmer and snugger than we, but we knew from experience that it would extract much sweat and tears before it deigned to reward us with its roar of life.
It did.
While my friend had steadfastly refused to help with the driving, he did at least do his share of cranking at the starting handle. All other means of bringing animation to this stubborn ‘equus asinus’ had failed, so by the time we heard its first sputtering gasps - welcome evidence of life - we were well and truly warmed. It is curious to consider that a lethargic object such as my donkeyesque Trojan van should have such a distinct personality, but I am prepared to believe that it deliberately refused to start until we had rid our bones of the winter’s chill.
Our first port of call was to the police station, where we were informed that the road over the moor was blocked again, but that at first light a gritting lorry with a snow plow would be out (at both ends) and by mid morning it might be possible to make our escape.
Mid morning came and we joined a small convoy of vehicles setting off up Blue Bank and onto the high plateau, slowly and carefully picking its way; each driver holding his breath and hoping that that plow and grit would be man enough for the job. At mid day in the middle of the moor, we passed - inch by inch - a similar formation coming the other way, and a couple of hours later we dropped off the moor into Pickering, and safety.
That was the winter of Nineteen Sixty Three, and every time I hear a certain Christmas carol I think of a donkey; those two days; and of a kind lady.
I may never see a Trojan van again. Almost certainly I will never drive one again, but I’ll never forget my donkey; my Trojan horse.