We are notoriously bad at coping with snow in the UK. Here in North Staffordshire is no different. A mere dusting of the white stuff and roads grind to a halt and schools close. Curtains twitch and people begin checking their stockpiles of Fray Bentos steak and kidney pies.
I’m not sure why we can’t seem to handle proper winter weather.
Perhaps it is because we get so little of it and it is so infrequent.
The truth is snow is a genuine novelty round these parts which is why most of us don’t bother fitting winter tyres to our cars.
When it does snow, my perception is that the majority of people over the age of 60 refuse to leave the house until the great thaw sets in.
This isn’t what happens overseas, I can assure you.
Our attitude is mad, really. Even after nine months of fairly incessant rain which made for a washout of a summer, many people fail to appreciate the beauty of the season of frost, snow and ice.
Thank goodness for children and their love of snowmen and sledges is all I can say.
In early December I flew to France for a festive weekend away with my mates Will and Rob.
It was a new alternative to the annual pub crawl around Newcastle – the idea being that we would sit in front of a log fire drinking vino, watching telly and playing games.
We landed at Geneva airport to be confronted by a white blanket covering the countryside.
The lady handing over the keys to our hire car – a very modest Vauxhall Meriva – asked Will if he wanted snow chains fitting to the tyres. She genuinely couldn’t advise whether we’d need them or not.
“Nah,” he responded after a few seconds’ thought. “I think we’ll be owrate.”
Two hours later it was squeaky bum time as the ill-equipped people carrier quite literally inched its way up Le Crêt de la Neige – the highest peak in the Jura mountains – in the worst blizzard I’ve ever seen.
To his eternal credit, Will fought with the steering wheel and gear stick for all he was worth to coax every ounce of life from the engine and find some traction in the deepening snow as darkness fell.
It was quite simply an epic journey and it was the snow that made it so.
Had it been simply overcast or raining the four hour journey to Will’s place in France would have been eminently forgettable.
As it was, that journey and the sight of the beautiful, snow-covered mountains and fir trees made the holiday so memorable.
You’ll have guessed by now that I’m a big fan of the white stuff.
Sadly, for me, we get precious little of it round these parts and, when we do, it never lasts for very long.
Indeed, properly disruptive snowstorms in the UK as a whole during the last decade or so can be counted on the fingers of one hand.
Fortunately, that wasn’t the case when I was growing up in Sneyd Green during the 1980s. Back then heavy snowfalls appeared with far more regularity and I think we coped a little bit better with them.
Football certainly carried on thanks to that genius invention, the high-vis orange ball. Remember them?
Trawling through The Sentinel’s archives I unearthed some wonderfully evocative pictures – highlighting the particularly snowy winters of 1981/2, 1987 and 1989.
The Christmas of 1981, for example, was a white one for the people of the Potteries and I was able to build a snowman with my brother on Christmas Eve.
Earlier that month, on December 13, snow blitzed the south of the country and even the Queen became stranded for several hours in a Cotswold pub.
Two ships foundered in the English Channel and some homes in Somerset were without electricity for five days.
Three weeks later, in the January of 1982, it was particularly cold.
On January 8 and 9 heavy snow and gale force winds saw severe blizzards across the Midlands, Wales, Ireland and southern England. Transport services were thrown into chaos and millions of commuters failed to get to work in London for two days running.
Sadly, in 30 years, we seem to have become worse at coping with the snow when it does arrive.
Perhaps the next time we get an inch or two in our neck of the woods we should try to appreciate the fleeting beauty of it and realise that it isn’t the end of the world. Honest.
Anyway, I’d better be off now. I think it’s starting to snow and I wouldn’t want to get stuck at work.
Pick up a copy of the Weekend Sentinel for 12 pages of nostalgia