Some weeks there are too many pictures on this blog. But this hasn’t been one of those weeks and there are words everywhere.
It’s time to remedy that situation.
I grabbed this image from the upper slopes of the Groot Constantia Wine Estate on the evening that my boy was meeting Father Christmas and as the sun set across the Cape Flats.
It seems that I still have my fascination with dead trees.
I’m not sure that this is a good thing.
Apologies for the lack of updates recently.I haven’t really been around anywhere on the internet, having switched off my television set and gone out and found something less boring to do instead, as the old programme tagline went.
(Anyone able to name that programme, btw?)
Today’s alternative to twitter, facebook, blogging and getting through a mountain of flickr uploads was Noordhoek’s Long Beach.
Absolutely stunningly beautiful, but no wi-fi.
Shame.
All the way from Cape Town to London. But no further.
It’s sad that after all the anticipation, all the planning, all the trials and tribulations, that the final photo I managed to get on my trip up North was this one:
But it does speak volumes about my last few days in the UK. Taking photos inside the airport – even if you were in the mood to do so and there was something worth recording – is frowned upon by the Sussex police and their big guns. And the view from the windows was grey, industrial and limited by poor visibility.
That pic was taken on my arrival at Gatwick on Wednesday afternoon. The following morning, I trekked 4 miles up the A23, towing my suitcase. To put you in the picture (not literally), this is the the major route that leads in, out and around Gatwick airport. It’s a major road, a busy dual carriageway. Usually, anyway.
This was it on Thursday morning at about 9:30am:
This was just before I hitched a lift with an aircraft engineer called Brian, who was trying to get into work and who had been on the road for over an hour, despite living only 6 miles away. He told me that the ground staff had cleared over 160,000 tonnes of snow off the runway in 8 hours the previous day. I wondered why the person weighing it was bothering – the numbers are meaningless when you’re fighting a losing battle anyway.
And so, with Gatwick cut off from the outside world – no planes, no buses, no taxis, no hire cars, no nothing – in or out for over 24 hours and with reports of the weather rapidly worsening towards the west of London, when a single (and I mean a single) bus did become available to Heathrow, I jumped at the chance, got to T5 and moved my flight home forward by 48 hours. And thus, I found myself – ironically, left without a reason to stay – checking in for a flight back to Cape Town at just about exactly the same time a-ha would have been coming onto the stage at the Oslo Spektrum.
Utterly heartbreaking and a disastrous end to my trip. I didn’t see the friends I wanted to see, I didn’t get to Oslo and I didn’t get that last opportunity to see Morten et al doing their thing for the last time. At least for my part, I did everything I could.
There were the usual, annual reports in the papers about how badly Britain had coped with the snowy conditions, but this was exceptionally bad weather: the worst in living memory in Sheffield, as you can see from this photo of my parents’ road – yes – it is there somewhere.
Back to Cape Town and normal life (such as it is), then.
Which actually isn’t such a bad thing.
Things are looking bad. Very bad.
The beauty and rediscovered novelty of the snow has given way to the practicalities of travel and the implications of not being able to get to where I need to be.
As I write, there are blizzard conditions outside, adding to the (at least) 16″ of snow on the ground already. Locally, the roads are all closed, deep in snow and transport is at an absolute standstill. These are exceptional conditions, even for Sheffield. And in the midst of all this, I have to get to the station and try and find my way to Gloucester for the next leg of my journey. But that’s not going to be possible – I’m just not able to get anywhere at the moment: it really is that bad. And so, I’m going to make a big push to walk the 5 miles to Sheffield station towing a 23kg suitcase on a sledge: and get to London.
And even when I do that, Gatwick airport is closed.
But I need to do my bit: there’s no point my being anywhere but Gatwick if they should reopen before my flight is due to leave.
I’m depressed, a litte worried about heading out in these conditions and resigned to the fact that this isn’t going to happen. So, if it does, then I’m all smiles.
Photos from yesterday are going up on flickr as I write.
Blimey. Chilliness abounds.
Yesterday, I nearly died at Portishead by the side of the Bristol Channel. And bloody hell, there are nicer places to pop your clogs, I can tell you.
I would have taken more photos on such an elemental day, but I was shaking too much: when my brother feels the cold, you know it’s bad.
It was bitter and I needed a pint of the same to recover.
Then onto the football – least said, soonest mended, although I will quietly seethe forever at the inexplicable and biased actions of Mr A Wanker – or whatever that ref’s name was. Still, always a pleasure(?) to watch my beloved red and white wizzzaaaaaards.
Today – sunnier, more beautiful, less windy, slightly less chance of getting hypothermia. Slightly.
Up onto the moors above Sheffield for a walk in the snow. And very pretty it was too.
Photos from the first two days (which have passed far too quickly) are here.
Tomorrow, Newcastle, where I can apparently expect to see A LOT of the white stuff – and get some more of that infamous Portishead-style wind.
Back into the pub, then.