The Winter of 1947

I had just celebrated my 9th birthday when the infamous winter of 1947 struck. Now that we were getting bigger my parents had swapped their larger bedroom for the small bedroom used by their three small children.  Both bedrooms were on the first floor of our tiny cottage and this, larger, bedroom faced the front street. On the morning following the storm, I can clearly remember awakening to a strange, dark silence. There were always some noises coming from tradesmen on the rounds at that time in the morning, as there was always light filtering around and through the curtain at the window but this morning the room was completely silent as well as being completely dark. Getting up, I edged towards where I knew the window was (not having the luxury of a bedside lamp I had to move cautiously) and pulled back the curtain but still no light entered the room.

In deep darkness I dressed as quickly as I could before waking my brother and sister and going downstairs. My parents were already up and my father was on the point of opening the front door to see what was going on. Naturally, I went with him. Imagine our shock when the door was opened and a wall of snow met our eyes. My father quickly closed the door again to stop the deep chill entering the house and we went to check the back door. This was a different kettle of fish because it opened outwards. Initially it refused to budge but putting his shoulder to it, my father forced it to open a few inches by compressing the snow that had built up behind it. That was when we realized our predicament; we were trapped in our house.

As a hobby, my father used to keep and breed canaries and budgerigars

which he kept in a raised aviary at the end of our small rear garden. These are delicate creatures and they need access to a continuous supply of food and water, especially in the depths of winter. His immediate concern was for his precious birds which, although they were no more than about ten of fifteen yards away, those yards were presently impossible to cross.

His main focus now was just getting to his precious birds and by pushing even harder at the back door he managed to open it a foot or more. Then, by pushing against the exposed, uncompressed snow, he gradually made space to wriggle out. I can’t remember how deep the snow was. I believe it was over my head and it had certainly drifted up over the back door as it had also drifted up over our 2nd floor windows to the front. I know my father eventually managed to get out sufficiently far to a position where, using the shovel we used to gather coal to put on our open fire, he was able to start shoveling the snow out of his way. Nevertheless, it still took a couple of hours to channel a path from the back of the house to his bird room where, at last, he was able to give the birds fresh, unfrozen water as well as fresh seeds.

Returning to the house he then had the task of carefully removing the snow from our glass roofed kitchen. Lit only from the gas light that got in through the window between the living room, the kitchen was still in darkness. The weight of snow on that glass roof must have been huge but somehow it survived. Disposing of the snow was a difficult task because there was very little space to play with in our tiny back garden. Eventually, the roof was cleared and because it had stopped snowing, lots of light now flooded in. With the essentials taken care of, we all sat down to breakfast. What was happening to us and to other families around us had never before happened in the memories of my parents so it was a matter of great excitement as well as of concern, and at that stage, we still hadn’t been able to get out of our house. Without a telephone we felt very isolated, even though we had neighbours all around us.

In the Cardiff of 1947 the main form of traffic was horse-drawn and horses would have struggled to pull anything in those conditions. That meant my parents had to find an alternative source for milk, bread, fish, and even green-groceries. Nor was there any refuse collection because that too was done by horse drawn carts. There definitely weren’t any snow ploughs and the roads were blocked for a couple of weeks until the snow melted. I can’t remember how he did it because the depth of snow that had drifted against the house must have been considerable, but somehow my father eventually managed to remove the snow from our front door when were able to join up with our neighbours. Of course, not all our neighbours were as conscientious as was my father; indeed, some were too old to manage without help so even getting the hundred or so yards to the nearest, very small, shop was still difficult. Though on a much smaller scale to that which occurred in 1947, we still are aware of the dangers for passers bye when householders fail to clear the ice and snow from the front of their houses. God knows how people would manage if something similar happened nowadays. Who could they blame?

Bernard Gallivan

February 2019

 

 

The winter of 1963

I was working in London in 1963 when Britain experienced its coldest winter since records began. Unlike 1947, we didn’t get all that much snow but the temperatures were at record low levels and stayed that way for weeks on end.

My means of transport between Cardiff and London and between my lodgings in London and my place of works in Arnos Grove, North London was a magnificent Norton Dominator twin 500 cc motor-cycle. As an aside, when not in use, my motor cycle was parked outside my digs in Palmers Green, perhaps five miles away from Arnos Grove. I mention this to illustrate how British society has changed in the past 50 years. Anyone could have started my motor cycle; it didn’t need a special key to start it and because I never chained it up, anyone could have stolen or borrowed it. But they didn’t because it wasn’t theirs. Can you imagine what would happen nowadays if you left a valuable motor-cycle unguarded and unchained.

On one of those early mornings when I should never have contemplated driving my motor-cycle, I mounted my Norton and set off. It wasn’t long before I found myself on the North Circular road. I was in the outside lane so I must have been driving fairly quickly when I saw stationary traffic ahead. In such conditions I dare not use my front brake so, instead, I applied my rear brake. Nothing happened. The wheel had immediately locked up and began sliding on the black ice that covered the road. I could see I was about the hit the car that was slowing down ahead of me so I managed to slip into the middle lane. Again, it was obvious to me that I was still going too fast to stop in time and I was going to hit another car that was ahead of me . Luckily, I managed to slip into the inside lane and finally came to a stop just inches from a stationary car. The road was an absolute death trap covered as it was in black ice. If I had used my front brake I would definitely have had a serious accident.

A little later that same morning, I was just driving passed Arnos Grove Underground station (except it’s overground that far out) when I drove up behind a car that was slipping and sliding all over the place. There is a slight uphill gradient and another steep camber into the kerb just outside the station and as I came up to the car it slide right into the kerb. I tried to continue on without either accelerating or braking and just sat on my machine as quietly as possible. It worked and I drove right over the ice that had defeated to car.

I was very lucky to get to work that day without having an accident.

 

The last London Smog.

It was during the winter of 1962/3 or perhaps 1963/4 that I became enveloped in the last of the serious London Smogs. I had been living in London for a few years and had experienced a few smogs but this last one was something else. I was a keen athlete in those days and even went out running in one of the lesser ones. That was a big mistake of course because after completing my training session, I found I was coughing up blood mixed with black particles. I never did that again. But, as I said before, this last smog was something else again so the thought of going for a run never entered my head.

It had been foggy all that day but I had still managed to drive my motor-cycle into work in the morning. All my fellow workmates and I were concerned by what was happening and by 5 pm conditions had seriously worsened. By then, anyone who could had decided to use neither private nor public transport to get home. Even though I was at least five miles from my digs, I decide it would be far safer to walk than to ride my motorbike. Indeed, as soon as I left the Standard Telephones and Cables communications factory where I was work on an early computer called the Stantec Zebra, I knew I had made a sensible decision. By then, traffic was at a standstill and out of the deep fog people were wailing and calling out for help. They just wanted to know where they were. Honestly, you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.

As I began walking I realized even walking was dangerous because others, trying to do the same, were constantly bumping into me – or I into them. One also had to be mindful of lampposts and other pavement furniture. Car drivers were in a much worse state. Most were relying on the tail lights of the vehicle ahead just to keep on the road so if the front vehicle stopped or turned right or left, the following driver would do the same. This is why so many were getting lost.

Having done the journey so often, but always previously by motor-cycle, except for constantly bumping into people, I was managing fine. I knew all I had to do was to follow the main north circular road and it would take me very close to my home. All went well until I was probably no more that 100 yards from where I lived. I had left the main road a few minutes earlier and suddenly, for the first time on that journey, I realized I was lost. I couldn’t think how I had made a mistake but suddenly the street names were entirely unfamiliar to me. Also, because I was now on far less trafficked side streets, there was no one else I could ask for help. It was hard not to panic and I was near to losing it when I came to the end of a street and managed to read a street name I recognized. That last 100 yards must have taken me ten to fifteen minutes to achieve. I was filthy dirty from the smog when I finally reached home and I coughed up black phlegm all evening.

That was actually the last of the serious London smogs because the recently introduced Clean Air Act finally saw an end to those dreadful weather conditions. You might still find yourself in a dense London fog but nothing now compares with the real pea-soupers of yesteryear.

Bernard Gallivan

February 2019