Day 241 - Christmas in Wales, and England

It's December 22nd, about 2:30am. Roughly four hours have passed since we phoned the hotel to tell them we were 10 miles away. Nick is driving extra-ordinarily well, given the slightest wrong move on the snow-covered roads would send us into a hedge. The mood in the car is flat. We have been driving for ten hours straight. We have traveled just 25 miles.

Today, it snowed in England. Quite a bit.

Rach and I have traveled dirt roads in Bolivia where you have to hold a hankie to your mouth simply to breath. We've held it together whilst our spines turned to jelly on chicken buses in Belize. We've spent two days becalmed in the Caribbean Sea and ridden out three metre waves in a storm to end all storms. We've walked the Inca Trail, hiked up a volcano and trapsed through insect-infested swamps.

None of this compares to the trials of a trip from Heathrow to High Wycombe.

It's all so very English. It's not clear why, but for some reason this extreme snowfall seems to have caught the country by surprise. Snow? In England? No! Surely not?

England has, quite literally, ground to a halt. Motorists sit immobile in traffic jams on snow-covered country lanes. Talk radio is alive with stories of 15 min journeys taking 7 hours. Sports centres and churches are converted into emergency shelters for those who can't get home. Ordinary folk come out of their homes to provide tea and chocolate to weary travelers. It's a big slice of Blitz spirit, Xmas 2009 version.

Then, shortly before 2:30am, we slide down a hill and power up the other side to see heaven emerge from behind a hedge. Bright, giant lights appear in the windshield, proclaiming we have reached 'The Crown Pub". We made it! A bed is ours for the night.

And not just any bed! Underfloor heating! Satellite television! A bar which is still open at this ungodly hour! Never in my life have I suffered so much yet been so happy to do so.

Welcome back to England.

Fast forward a day. We're in Wales. It's 10pm and cold. The snow crunches underfoot as we make our way slowly toward the farmhouse on the hill. My father's car has passed us twice already. Once, as it made it's way down to the main road to pick up Fran and Nick. Despite the impressive performance to date of the rental car, it simply couldn't make it up the final mile of ice-encrusted Welsh lane. We hid behind a tree as he sped past, oblivious.

On the way back, Dad drives a different route. We are caught in the headlights, no place to hide. We put our heads down and trudge on, pretending to be locals, walking like farmers. It works! He doesn't notice that it's us, 13,000 miles from where we should be.

Now, we're making our way toward the farmhouse door. Dad answers. Surprise! He looks shocked. What are you doing here?! We laugh, come inside and have a drink. Everyone is here. Nephew Phoinix and neice Jamzyn are bigger. My sister Tania and my Dad are smaller. I meet the new addition to the family; Zara, a huge Rhodesian Ridgeback. We all congratulate ourselves on pulling off the surprise. We 're together, in snowy Wales, for Christmas.

It's now the 25th December. It's Christmas Day.

The kids buzz around the tree like dragonflies in a swamp. They pluck presents from underneath the tree, handing them out to the lucky recipients one-by-one. Everyone has been so kind and generous. Zara inspects each piece of empty wrapping only when she is sure it contains no food. Then, she moves on to the next.

Yesterday evening, we phoned absent family and friends far across the seas. There were smiles, and there were tears. Speaking, as always, reminds you of what you are missing.

We gorge ourselves. Sian, my wonderful secret-keeping stepmother, has done the work of ten men (which converts to roughly three women). Turkey, ham, spuds with cranberry sauce, sprouts, honeyed carrots, stuffing and sweet potato. We pull crackers and talk too loudly. Chocolates and Welsh cheese follow as we watch the Doctor Who and Gavin and Stacey finales. Outside, the snow is no longer falling, but the hills remain dusted with a light covering. The air is cold, clear and crisp, and the Southern Cross is no-where to be seen.

This is Christmas, UK style.


All the trip from hell photos are here and the Xmas photos here