I confess all my remembrances of the United Kingdom in the depths of winter have somewhat mellowed in the 12 sunny Hong Kong years since the last visit; mellowed from the glum reality of welly-boots that tramped down untidy muddy paths to muddier fields, of sweating in jumpers and coats, of seeing the poor fearful hares hiding miserably in the longer grass, of dirty dogs’ feet that never dried, of icy driving rains and biting Siberian winds, of the darkest and emptiest skies at 4.30 in the afternoon and of an unhealthy, pathological dependency on television. So this return visit was a bit of an unknown. It was quite a change to descend like Santa onto a black and white world –a frozen picturesque landscape and veritable winter wonderland!
I actually quite like cold weather, wrapping up and long walks. On Saturday morning (still exshtreehmly drhunk fhrom the hend of tehrm luhnch and dhancing the night away –hic!), I left a chilled Hong Kong at 6 degrees, but the cold weather there just isn’t pleasant. This is primarily because none of the buildings have insulation (from the heat or the cold) nor any fixed heating units (like central heating). It’s just not even considered. And visiting public buildings or shopping malls will not help: air conditioning, even in the very coldest of snaps, is unconscionably ubiquitous.
The first indicator that all was not going to plan was the flight plan that showed Manchester and not Heathrow as our destination. Barely a minute later whilst peering down over the wintry east Yorkshire coast and the whitened-out town of Hull, the Captain informed all that Heathrow was in danger of immanent closure and that because fuel was on the low side we couldn’t hang about and should make for Manchester. We seemed to instantly touch down at a very busy airport, so busy that we awaited nearly five hours on the tarmac. Without Ray next to me, I think my mood may have turned. Thanks, Ray, you and about 10 Bloody Marys saved my sanity!
Once through immigration there arose a chilly choice of continuing directly to Heathrow by bus through the night (courtesy of the fantastic Air NZ) or making one’s own way. Ray continued by rail to Daventry and I, along with an excitable tour group of Deutsche teenagers, took the former option that got us all down England’s slushy A-roads as far as the snowy Hilton at Watford. The Air NZ staff there did us right with 20 quid per room for personal use (needing nothing but contentment in a steaming hot bath). Not once did I hear complaints. As ‘arrivees’ our needs were few and easily satisfied: the news for the next few days highlighted the suffering of those ‘departees’ eager to reach foreign climes or just get home in the other direction and the world pitied the Heathrow refugees.
Our second Christmas Day in Hong Kong was spent on South Bay where, apart from Gethyn Clothier, we were the only souls on the beach. The winter water was warmer than even the sandiest, most sun-kissed any British August sea could contrive. AND the beaches had cafes, lifeguards and astonishing views. As far as we were concerned, you could keep your jingle bells! In those early HK years everything was new, better, sunnier and more exciting. I recall ecstatically phoning our good friends Rachel and Bob in the UK from an empty beach on Lamma gushingly describing warm waters, cold beers, butterflies and the bliss it was to be alive in this demi-paradise. Their terse response was a reminder that it was bloody five a.m., still dark and they had to go to work in a couple of hours! Ho-hum…
Christmas trees, carols and fake snow also seemed anachronous to Asia’s World City where for a time I became a strict Confucian and viewed anything extra-Sino as a contaminant. I loftily and earnestly sought the very soul of The Chinese. I’m still looking, but now realise it might take a while...
Getting to Heathrow the next morning was eventless, but some considerable care was exercised manoeuvring the snow-covered hire car out of the skating rink that was the Thrifty car park. My exciting Top Gear report on Saabs is that they may be finely-engineered Swedish friends of fearless ice-bound motorists, but only when fitted with snow tyres.
I concede that the UK in snow, as everywhere I’m sure, gives every landscape a novelty and beauty. Back in the Winter of Discontent of '78 I was astonished to see someone ski down Oxford Street and wondered if I’d ever see the like again. This winter is certainly more severe than usual, but the snowy landscape has a bucolic, Brueghel-esque charm (that is until the salting snow ploughs turn the roads into dirty brown slush). Indeed, emerging from the candlelit carol service at Wells Cathedral into the snow covered cathedral green and passing under the Penniless Porch gave the feeling of being attuned to our medieval ancestry –had shivering folks not done the same for hundreds of years?
Christmas Day looks like it will be cold, possibly the coldest day thus far, and more snow is predicted for next week. My only earnest hope is that we are not marooned in the Mendips at the little centrally-heated cottage we have rented, that we will not be forced to frequent the Redan Inn public house next door and that I will be able to get back to work on the 3rd January.
A very merry Christmas, everybody, and a peaceful and prosperous 2011!
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