OUT on the wild, windy moor, there was no one around but the dogs and me. The sleet was unremitting and cruel like parody, too thin, too seedy, to be proper snow. Light snow remained on the ground, however, left over from the wuthering flurries of the night.
On a clear day standing on Chimney Bank atop of Spaunton Moor, you can see 360° to the rim of the encircled world of heather. Not today; today, the moor was strangely, squinty close, conscribed by the ice in the eye, and was strangely intimate for vast moorland. I'd driven up from Thirsk, 20 miles away, where the family and I were staying at the Golden Fleece on Market Square. In James Herriot's books, Thirsk is fictionalised as 'Darrowby' and the Golden Fleece is 'The Drovers' Arms'. This is Yorkshire's Herriot Country.
I'd left the town just after dawn, the Christmas lights of the Market Square reflecting off the cobbles, the sash windows of the close-packed Georgian buildings festooned with baubles and tinsel; a Dickensian Christmascard scene. Art became Life. I was unconcerned by the night's snow shower, even with the infamous 25% gradient of Sutton Bank along the route, as I was driving a four-litre farm 4x4. (I know, I know, climate change, no one should have a gas-guzzler, but you try farming with a Nissan LEAF.) Such is hubris that, a quarter of the way up Sutton Bank, my knuckles on the wheel were as white as the driven snow and my mind went to Herriot: how the hell did he manage, in a 1930s Austin, with bald tyres, to do his wintry rounds as t'vitn'ry? But they were resourceful and tough, that generation. They did for Hitler.
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