The least from the east

On Monday it was so cold when we walked eastwards down the Monsal Trail to Hassop Station for a BLT that the wind burned my face. I clung to Dave with one hand and covered my face with the other. But the snow itself had not arrived. It did its pathetic best for 24 hours and on Tuesday we woke to a light dusting on the hills. 

What were the weather warnings for? Yet again, we thought, it's the London-centric media being hysterical. It reminded me of this piece I had in the Times some years ago. Here's a brief excerpt:

Go chew on some northern grit

...............One winter night, Leeds was completely cut off by a severe snowstorm and hundreds of commuters had to find somewhere to sleep in Leeds, but the BBC said nowt. By contrast, whenever there is a even a whisper of snow over Primrose Hill the national newsreaders begin to tremble with excitement. And if the snow actually settles to more than half a centimetre deep, you can be sure it will be the scariest of the six o’clock headlines.

I lived in Sheffield (you remember Sheffield - England’s fourth largest city) for twenty years and several times each winter there was sufficient snow to stop the city buses. We made no fuss. We put on our wellies and walked. But if a sprinkling of snow stops a London commuter train, and poor Londoners have to trek half a mile up the track, the whole of the British Isles gets to know about it.............

           

At least the London-based Guardian printed this letter today:

But yesterday afternoon we got respectably heavy flurries interspersed with bright skies, and Liz and I decided to go for a walk on the Monsal Trail. Oh yes: we need our fresh air and our exercise. Liz took the following photos - thank you, Liz.

View from the lane:

Longstone station:

Emerging from Headstone tunnel:

Outside the tunnel:

Benevolent local witch:

Walking home:

It was exhilarating and fun, and this morning we woke up to this: real snow.