Salut! is off to see in the new year in France. Or at least he hopes he is. Please bear in mind that this was written mainly for people living in warmer climes and/or reading The National, Abu Dhabi ...
Any day now, I hope to make the simple drive from London to the coast, put the car on a train and sit back to be whisked to France.
On leaving the Channel Tunnel at Coquelles, I will take safe, fast roads to the city of Le Mans to join relatives for le réveillon, the New Year’s Eve feast.
In those two short paragraphs are at least four hostages to fortune, as anyone who has followed the news from Europe will realise. At the least sign of unpleasant weather – and yes, I do realise I am addressing readers accustomed to a glorious winter climate – the drive to the coast will be anything but simple. My rail crossing on Le Shuttle could be delayed or cancelled. The French roads, if I reach them, may be treacherous.
Why is it such a hit-and-miss affair to cross the narrow strip of sea known as the English Channel?
People have been getting from E to F (England to France) by this route for a long time without mechanical means at all. The first recorded Channel swim was in 1875 and I am sure it had been done regularly without fanfare for centuries. But for thousands of people last week, it seemed a lot harder to make the 50km journey by rail than it had been for the swimmers, admittedly with a shorter crossing of 34km.
As is usual when British or part-British transport systems falter, the weather was blamed. The snow in northern France was too fluffy. The trains’ electrical systems couldn’t cope with the sudden change from bitter conditions outside to the warmer tunnel. Around Britain, it has been the same story: snow followed by chaos. A moderately heavy shower slowed traffic so much that even in London suburbia, a trip I made in 25 minutes one morning took six times longer in the afternoon, although no roads were blocked and there was no black ice. Flights were cancelled, schools closed early for Christmas and people were stranded, forced to spend the night in stores, their cars or other makeshift shelters.
Yet all that has really happened has been winter. Winter happens every year, but Britain seems incapable of coping with conditions that go with it as surely as night follows day.
It has become part of the national identity to have an annual whinge about supposed extremes of weather that are, in reality, not extremes at all.
Pop lyrics are rarely the best means of supporting an argument, but these lines, written by the excellent Sandy Denny in her folk-rock song No End, fit like a glove:
They said that it was snowing
In astounded tones, upon the news
I wonder why they’re always so surprised
’Cos every year it snows
Thirty-one years after Denny’s death, her words ring true still. Still the snow comes at least once a year; still we’re astounded. Make the most of the (Emirati) winter, and wish me luck in mine.
Recent Comments