This picture, sent in by Jan Buchanon, of Cowes, and taken by her late grandfather, Alfred Hillier, shows conditions at Cowes in 1963.
ALL this snow makes those of a certain age feel like Arctic veterans. After all, we remember the 'real’ deep freeze almost 50 years ago — and we never allow others to forget it.
Telling exaggerated tales about how we survived the 'white hell’ has been one of the pleasures of being a baby boomer growing up on the Island.
For optimum effect, the following four paragraphs should be recited aggressively and in an Alf Garnett-type voice.
"Snow? Snow? Call this snow? You don’t know what you’re on about!
"You should have been around in 62-63. Now that was snow. It started falling on Boxing Day and the last bit thawed on Boniface Down about the middle of August.
"Havenstreet was cut off from the outside world for about six months and when rescuers eventually fought their way through they found the villagers had started to eat each other’s arms. But they were so cold, nobody had noticed.
"Grit? Grit? We didn’t have grit in those days. People got to work by walking from Ryde to Newport on the top of abandoned cars.
"I saw two blokes playing bowls on the top of a Southern Vectis bus once. It was the only bit of green they could find.
"Snow? Snow? You wanna talk about snow? The drifts were so deep over Bleak Down that farmers’ wives were knitting jumpers for sheep — and Ranulph Fiennes was working as a postman in Chale. It was the only way they could get the letters delivered."
There is no doubt the Big Freeze of ’63 was far worse than anything we have experienced so far this year.
There is one big difference, however (and I’m sure old Sandonians will correct me if I’m wrong) but I don’t recall the grammar school being closed.
I don’t remember a day’s respite from Mr Cooper’s algebra equations or 'Rock’ Hudson’s unfathomable physics experiments. We trudged in through the snow and trudged home again, still trying to absorb all we could.
Nowadays, if the contents of a carrier-bag from Iceland are spilt outside a junior school, the place is immediately shut down on health and safety grounds.
The ironic thing is, far fewer mothers went out to work 50 years ago, so there was always someone around to look after the kids if they had to be kept at home. But we rarely were.
Now, the country’s entire economic and industrial infrastructure is in jeopardy when schools close their gates for any length of time, because mothers are forced to abandon the workplace and assume maternal duties.
It’s at moments like this that snow loses its initial appeal and we all come to realise there is a definite pattern to our feelings as the wintry weather gets a grip and begins to outlive its welcome.
I suspect the following mood swings have been played out in many Island homes recently.
Day 1: Ahhh, look at that. Isn’t it a glorious sight? There’s nothing more wondrous than snow silently drifting down on a winter’s evening is there? It’s one of Mother Nature’s special treats.
Day 2: The whole world looks more beautiful when it’s covered in snow doesn’t it? It seems cleaner and more pure. Better still — it stops me getting into work.
Day 3: Still can’t manage to get into work. Lovely! Let’s drag the kids away from their computers and go for a walk. It’s great to do things as a family.
Day 4: The council still haven’t gritted the road I notice — and the pavement’s a death trap. The kids are starting to get on my nerves. Are you sure the school’s still closed?
Day 5: We’ve run out of milk and bread now — and that lot from Royal Mail look like they’ve shut up shop and gone home. Marvellous isn’t it? A few flakes of snow and the entire Island grinds to a halt.
Day 6: The blasted car won’t start now —- and God knows what our gas bill is going to be. Just when you think things couldn’t get any worse,- the damned weather means there’s no football on!
Day 7: Enough is enough! The supermarket shelves are empty because some morons have bought enough bread and milk to withstand the Siege of Leningrad.
Day 8: Global warming? I’ll give’em global bloody warming! The sooner we see the back of this snow, the better!
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| Roy Shiner, discussing tactics in the Newport changing room with one of its most popular footballers, Reg Langdon. |
A fascinating tapestry of Island people and events
WRITING these columns is like sending a little paper boat out on to a fast-running stream. You’re never entirely sure where it will end up or whether anyone will notice as it goes bobbing along.
But occasionally you receive correspondence which pulls together several threads from disparate columns — and one such arrived recently from Brian Marriott.
Brian, who now runs his own successful design company, recalls commuting to Portsmouth Art College 40 years ago in the company of dear old Marty Ford, whose passing was featured in this column.
He also worked for Ryde printer John Botha and helped create posters for the 1968 and 1969 pop festivals. Some of these originals are now worth a small fortune, and Brian (to his understandable chagrin) never bothered to keep any copies.
He was also a talented footballer and represented the National Association of Boys’ Clubs England team on three occasions, following in the footsteps of the peerless John Sothcott. Brian appeared in the same Newport side (managed by Roy Shiner) as the likes of Ken Allen, Reg Langdon, Jeff Austin, Tony Grimwade and Dave Attrill (whose death also featured large in this space last summer).
That’s the thing about the Island. Over the years, events and people intermingle in unexpected ways to form a fascinating tapestry of life.