On Saturday morning I crept out of the house at half past seven, leaving N safely tucked up in bed, and tottered down to the station with my suitcase in tow. We'd had about 1cm of snow overnight, and yet a reduced service was running. Nonetheless I made it up to and then across London and to Kings Cross. Armed with a coffee and smart phone access to the Ashes updates (let's not mention that eh?) I waited patiently for my train. I boarded and settled down with my knitting for the three hour trip Up North.
All of this happened in perfect calm. No delays, no falling over on the way to stations or trains, bags safely stowed with no fighting over luggage racks. And soon I was speeding across the countryside admiring the pretty frost dusted trees.
Little was I to know the chaos I was leaving behind! Less than an hour into my journey news comes in from N that the south has been hit by blizzards. I wasn't sure I really believed it was that bad given I hadn't seen a single flake. Then the emergency text arrived to see if I could find out if the football was cancelled. It was! I'm not sure I've ever known it so bad that central London Premiership matches were called off.
I of course arrived at my destination and there wasn't so much of a hint of snow. Heavy showers were forecast for overnight and we got about half an inch. So much for it being grim up north!
I've been doing the obligatory pre-Christmas present drop at my parents, and squeezing in a bit of sightseeing along the way. Tomorrow I shall be attempting to get back to the south, where the Christmas holiday (and baking!!) can truly begin.