windscreen, which had to be constantly wiped clear. Wrapped in our heavy coats we froze also. Yet time passed. We were all drivers, and while two sat and slept or chatted or lit cigarettes for the drivers, the other two drove on steadily southwards.
We crossed the Border and looked back at the country we had left, and thought of our people snug in bed, since it was nearly midnight. I would have changed places with none of them, and as the draughts poked at us and our feet grew dead to heat and cold alike, we almost welcomed it as part of the great adventure. As the night wore on, the passengers became more silent, snatching half an hour’s sleep before changing over to take another turn at the wheel. As we passed through Penrith and swung east for Scotch Corner, a fall of snow flurried across the headlights. We knew we were for it; the Pennines lay before us.
Before we were halfway to the summit the snow came down in earnest. It was not honest snow, which lay crisply or drifted before the wind, but wet ice which congealed on everything it touched, like a black deadly skin. We slithered from corner to corner, driving by luck rather than judgement, until I gave up and passed the wheel to Alan, who was a much more competent driver than me. Again and again we were forced to stop to scrape the ice from the windscreen with our nails, because the wipers could not keep it clear. When we stopped on the summit to chip away the creeping ice on the cold glass, I had an idea.
‘Remember that gill of rum we bought in Glasgow?’ I asked. ‘Let’s rub it on the glass, and the spirit will stop it from freezing up.’ We did so, and drove on in a haze of alcohol.
As we ran down the other side of the Pennines conditions gradually improved. Soon we were running on soft ice which broke in slush and sang cheerfully under our wheels. But many times that night we knew the sickening sideways swing as the car slid across the road out of control. There were few other vehicles on the road, and it was one help all. Several times we helped to pull drivers out of the ditch, and more than once had the same assistance given to ourselves. The slow speed forced on us was all that saved the cars from damage.
We were well down in Nottinghamshire when dawn broke, clear and frosty and welcome. We pulled in at a roadside cafe and had breakfast, at city prices, but welcome nevertheless, as we were starving. We washed as best we could in the frost, and the cold snapped at our skin. Although our eyes were heavy and our skin was grainy with sleeplessness, we joyfully filled our lungs and slapped our legs and stamped our feet, and proceeded on our way quite believing we were the four finest people in all that shining dawn.
It was afternoon when we reached London. We had been lost in its vast suburbs and lonely approaches. It was Kay’s first visit to London, and I am sure she was not impressed. I think if it had been hers she would have swapped it all for five acres in Inverasdale, and while I would not wish to denigrate the 8 million people who call it home, she would not have had a bad bargain.
We parked the cars behind the mammoth block of offices that the government was building between Whitehall and the river. What we all needed was a wash and a meal, but we had no great time to lavish on luxuries. We went up to Lyons’ Corner House and did the best we could in as short a time as possible, and then with considerable excitement we piled into the Anglia and shot along Whitehall, past Scotland Yard – so named as the place where Sir William Wallace was tortured to death – and from there to the Abbey.
We split into two parties, since we wanted to take no chances.Now that the attempt was to be made we felt that we could not be too careful. It would have crushed us if we had discovered that special security arrangements had been put into operation because of suspicions aroused by a group of four Scots who whispered and looked longingly at the Stone and
We crossed the Border and looked back at the country we had left, and thought of our people snug in bed, since it was nearly midnight. I would have changed places with none of them, and as the draughts poked at us and our feet grew dead to heat and cold alike, we almost welcomed it as part of the great adventure. As the night wore on, the passengers became more silent, snatching half an hour’s sleep before changing over to take another turn at the wheel. As we passed through Penrith and swung east for Scotch Corner, a fall of snow flurried across the headlights. We knew we were for it; the Pennines lay before us.
Before we were halfway to the summit the snow came down in earnest. It was not honest snow, which lay crisply or drifted before the wind, but wet ice which congealed on everything it touched, like a black deadly skin. We slithered from corner to corner, driving by luck rather than judgement, until I gave up and passed the wheel to Alan, who was a much more competent driver than me. Again and again we were forced to stop to scrape the ice from the windscreen with our nails, because the wipers could not keep it clear. When we stopped on the summit to chip away the creeping ice on the cold glass, I had an idea.
‘Remember that gill of rum we bought in Glasgow?’ I asked. ‘Let’s rub it on the glass, and the spirit will stop it from freezing up.’ We did so, and drove on in a haze of alcohol.
As we ran down the other side of the Pennines conditions gradually improved. Soon we were running on soft ice which broke in slush and sang cheerfully under our wheels. But many times that night we knew the sickening sideways swing as the car slid across the road out of control. There were few other vehicles on the road, and it was one help all. Several times we helped to pull drivers out of the ditch, and more than once had the same assistance given to ourselves. The slow speed forced on us was all that saved the cars from damage.
We were well down in Nottinghamshire when dawn broke, clear and frosty and welcome. We pulled in at a roadside cafe and had breakfast, at city prices, but welcome nevertheless, as we were starving. We washed as best we could in the frost, and the cold snapped at our skin. Although our eyes were heavy and our skin was grainy with sleeplessness, we joyfully filled our lungs and slapped our legs and stamped our feet, and proceeded on our way quite believing we were the four finest people in all that shining dawn.
It was afternoon when we reached London. We had been lost in its vast suburbs and lonely approaches. It was Kay’s first visit to London, and I am sure she was not impressed. I think if it had been hers she would have swapped it all for five acres in Inverasdale, and while I would not wish to denigrate the 8 million people who call it home, she would not have had a bad bargain.
We parked the cars behind the mammoth block of offices that the government was building between Whitehall and the river. What we all needed was a wash and a meal, but we had no great time to lavish on luxuries. We went up to Lyons’ Corner House and did the best we could in as short a time as possible, and then with considerable excitement we piled into the Anglia and shot along Whitehall, past Scotland Yard – so named as the place where Sir William Wallace was tortured to death – and from there to the Abbey.
We split into two parties, since we wanted to take no chances.Now that the attempt was to be made we felt that we could not be too careful. It would have crushed us if we had discovered that special security arrangements had been put into operation because of suspicions aroused by a group of four Scots who whispered and looked longingly at the Stone and
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