Imagine a world of whiteness; visibility down to ten yards; temperature below zero; wind at forty mph. You may be thinking of some great, frozen space on the tundra or the prairies but I'm talking serious suburbia; a world where the nearest shop may be more than a mile away, and it will undoubtedly have run out of bread and milk, selling only chocolate bars, alcohol and magazines for men. The schools are closed and the Spittals and Brampton Hut roundabouts are both at a stand-still, again. This is our world. Brampton UK. We have run out of bird food.
There is nothing to do but to scale along the side of the house to the garage, heave the door open against the icy blast and root among the old paint pots and fishing tackle for skis and boots.
The skis and poles are easy to find, suspended from the roof-beams in their blue sausage-tube where they were hung many years ago. Near the floor is a low shelf that contains various footwear in assorted stages of decay. Among these are two pairs of ski boots.
Hanna's look the same as when I first saw them, on our honeymoon almost 26 years ago. It was summer but she looked good in them anyway. Mine are slightly newer; bought in Colorado 22 years ago. However I notice that the laces are a bit short and there seems to be things rattling about inside them. These unsavoury objects turn out to be leaves, seeds, peanuts and mouse droppings. The insoles and laces have been shredded for bedding, but the leather outers are still in reasonable shape. They are basically OK which is good because I bet they don't make them any more and the nearest real ski shop is a plane-ride away.
So now we need the Arctic survival kit which is stored in the cupboard under the stairs, where we also keep old maps, telescopes, the hoover and the ironing board.
I choose an ancient balaclava, leather gloves and motorcycle goggles, as well as a tube thing which goes over your neck and can be worn in 32 different ways that all look the same. It's basically a tube that goes over your neck: Very clever and very cool (a present from my brother who knows these things.)
With a top coat and five layers of underwear, I'm ready to face the challenge and set off with an empty back-pack and a credit card to bring back the provender.
The wind is against me but the goggles really help for a while, until they get coated with wet snow on the outside and then steam-up on the inside. They still look cool so I keep them on, until the incident with the lamp post. What a stupid place to put it.
I'm about a quarter of a mile from home when I realise that the goggles have steamed up because I'm boiling. Scott and Amundsen didn't have this contend with. They had proper cold. I'm skiing in a sauna!
Cars, even buses, slow down as no-one has ever seen an Arctic explorer in Brampton before. (The "Ice beards" all live 30 miles away in Cambridge where you can find the British Antarctic Survey and the Scott Polar Institute. Both sell a nice line in ties with penguins on, in case you are interested.)
At the shops, my epic journey is rewarded with cheers and camera flashes. Most people pat me on the back and it feels great. On the way I have overtaken all the pedestrians and a bicycle. I'm "Jim of the Skageraks," heroic in my duty to keep the garden birds fed.
Later we all go out together and Dan demonstrates how you can survive by licking snow from the hedgerows. We celebrate by stopping for tea, hot chocolate and cakes at the village bakery. It's like finding a supply ship locked in the ice at the rim of our frozen world.
Now this may sound like fun to you softies in Bristol and Bath, but we have it hard in East Anglia. The schools were closed for three days this week so we were made to stay home and find strange ways to amuse ourselves. Cabin fever has set in. We make model ships from chicken bones and do scrimshaw work on bananas. As Captain Oates said "I am just going outside and may be some time."
No comments:
Post a Comment