Thirty Years Ago Today

The FaceBook feed for the Shropshire Star has thrown up the nugget that today is the thirtieth anniversary of the coldest day recorded in England.

"Thirty years ago today, Shropshire recorded the lowest temperature ever seen in England as the mercury fell to a staggering -26.1 C (-15F)."

That was recorded about 6 miles from where I lived at the time, in Edgmond.

I realize that this is small beer to some of my friends who live in Canada and the American Mid-West, but honestly, England does not get anywhere near that cold as a rule. Minus 10 is exceptional and pretty rare; colder than that is pretty much unheard of even in the Highlands of Scotland (excluding wind-chill).

On 10th January 1982 I still lived at home in Telford with my parents. I was in the final couple of months of a contract for the now-defunct Oswestry Borough Council, still the best job I have ever had, if amongst the lowest paid. I used to have to drive around one of the more rural and scenic districts in the country and report on fly tipping. I was out of the office, driving around the place for hours at a time.

It was great.

But I digress. I didn’t do much driving that January. To Oswestry and back was a round trip of just under 70 miles and I was doing it in an ancient 1968 F Reg Mini Cooper (back then I was still thin enough to fold myself up and get into one. I doubt I could now). The calendar tells me that 10th January was a Sunday that year and I think I managed to avoid driving more than a couple of miles the entire week following it: I recall a tentative drive a couple of miles down to go to the bank with my sister, during which, as we crept along on the icy, snowed over roads in Hadley, a pedestrian tapped on the windscreen (yes, we were driving that slowly) to tell me that the rear wheels were not turning; they had clogged with snow and ice and I was effectively dragging the skating of the car along the road.

I don’t recall much about the coldest day itself, other than the fact that the power had gone off in the snow storm the night before and that when it stopped around 9.30pm I phoned my best friend, Phil and we trekked out into the darkness to investigate, ending up in the pub (as you do), where we enjoyed what in usual times would have been a lock in, but since the snow was several feet deep the landlord didn’t even pretend to close the pub and somehow civilisation failed to end.



This photo, which I have posted before, was taken on that walk up to the Bird in Hand on the Cockshutt between Wrockwardine Wood, St George’s and Oakengates. God, it was cold, but I was 22 and it was fun.

Thirty Years Ago Today

The FaceBook feed for the Shropshire Star has thrown up the nugget that today is the thirtieth anniversary of the coldest day recorded in England.

”Thirty years ago today, Shropshire recorded the lowest temperature ever seen in England as the mercury fell to a staggering -26.1 C (-15F).” That was recorded about 6 miles from where I lived at the time, in Edgmond.

I realize that this is small beer to some of my friends who live in Canada and the American Mid-West, but honestly, England does not get anywhere near that cold as a rule. Minus 10 is exceptional and pretty rare; colder than that is pretty much unheard of even in the Highlands of Scotland (excluding wind-chill).

On 10th January 1982 I still lived at home in Telford with my parents. I was in the final couple of months of a contract for the now-defunct Oswestry Borough Council, still the best job I have ever had, if amongst the lowest paid. I used to have to drive around one of the more rural and scenic districts in the country and report on fly tipping. I was out of the office, driving around the place for hours at a time.

It was great.

But I digress. I didn’t do much driving that January. To Oswestry and back was a round trip of just under 70 miles and I was doing it in an ancient 1968 F Reg Mini Cooper (back then I was still thin enough to fold myself up and get into one. I doubt I could now). The calendar tells me that 10th January was a Sunday that year and I think I managed to avoid driving more than a couple of miles the entire week following it: I recall a tentative drive a couple of miles down to go to the bank with my sister, during which, as we crept along on the icy, snowed over roads in Hadley, a pedestrian tapped on the windscreen (yes, we were driving that slowly) to tell me that the rear wheels were not turning; they had clogged with snow and ice and I was effectively dragging the skating of the car along the road.

I don’t recall much about the coldest day itself, other than the fact that the power had gone off in the snow storm the night before and that when it stopped around 9.30pm I phoned my best friend, Phil and we trekked out into the darkness to investigate, ending up in the pub (as you do), where we enjoyed what in usual times would have been a lock in, but since the snow was several feet deep the landlord didn’t even pretend to close the pub and somehow civilisation failed to end.



This photo, which I have posted before, was taken on that walk up to the Bird in Hand on the Cockshutt between Wrockwardine Wood, St George’s and Oakengates. God, it was cold, but I was 22 and it was fun.