Some thoughts on Snow in the South

Snow in the South is strange stuff. 

This week, the SOuth of England experienced its worst snow for twenty years.  How much snow, I hear you ask?  ABout two inches, here in Swindon.  Maybe not even that.  I know it's worse in London and on the country roads, but the fuss they're making round here you'd think a Boston Nor'easter had just dropped six feet on everyone's head.

There are, of course, genuine problems with the snow in teh south, starting with the fact that we are perrenially astonished by weather.  This is the same nation where the railways collapse reliably every single autumn, the first time a leaf lands on the track.  We have no ploughs, and we ran out of grit after two days.  Two days, folks.   Of about an inch a day.  Most people are astonished by the idea of packing a shovel in their car, and have been genuinely unable to get out of their villages because some other person, who thinks they are immune to snow, has crashed headlong into someone else on a corner. 

IN light of this, I have been walking to work, and it has been magical.  These three photos were taken in the heart of Taw Hill, a vast, soulless development of new houses that no one wants anymore.  But a light dusting of snow has coated the crisp packets, hidden the cranes and the remains of some drunk teenagers binge, and the place looks like the heart of rural Wiltshire.  It's gorgeous.  Those of us who have decided to let the bad tempered drivers have the roads get to work ruddy cheeked and dusted with other people's snowball fights.  Even walking back is OK.  I have to go by a much longer route - half of the shortcut is unlit and it's dark when I leave work - alongside a dual cariageway.  But when fresh snow is falling in the yellow streetlamps and the street is strangely silent, it's fine.

I wish we had more snow, but I also wish we had some grit trucks.

Snow in the South is a strange thing.