Story: Hardknott Pass Part II
The pair found themselves back in Ambleside. After asking in four different pubs, there was quite literally no room at the inn. The powercut knocked out electricity across most of the county, a landlord casually mentioned. Pretty much all of the phone masts were down too. That explains things.
They walked around the freezing car park waving phones in the air, like they do in films. It never works. The dog cheerfully accepted her dinner in the back of the car, had a short mooch about then promptly went back to sleep. What a star. After finally finding a single bar of phone signal, they discovered a pub, roughly an hour away, with rooms. Salvation, in the form of a probably draughty old chain pub. Over 90 minutes later, after going the long way round to avoid any road without markings, they cheered when the pub appeared on the roadside. It was old, in a crooked, constantly extended way, looked independent and had obviously been accepting weary travellers for centuries. There was something comforting in that. Clambering out of the car, legs stiff with cold and still fizzing from adrenaline, they went into The Brown Cow and found a deafeningly loud 80s disco in full swing.
“YOU GOT A ROOM BOOKED” the night manager yelled over the music. The pair realised they looked faintly mad. They were bundled up in coats, fleeces, layer upon layer but with trainers on, from the drive. Who turns up dressed like that in the middle of the night? They shifted awkwardly, forgetting how to form sentences that don’t have “fuck” in them. “Um, yeah, we- uh, our dog, can we bring our dog?” The little spaniel looked up, big brown eyes hopeful and tail slowly wagging in anticipation. The night manager looked down, twisted her lip and eventually nodded. “HERE’S YOUR KEY, UP THE STAIRS AND GO RIGHT…” her instructions got drowned out by a full-throated Cumbrian rendition of Don’t You Want Me Baby. “D’YOU WANT BREAKFAST?” They nodded, wordless with fatigue.
They bundled the dog into the room who immediately jumped onto the bed and claimed it as her own. The passenger sat and stroked the dog’s silky chest. The room was incongruously bright after driving for so long in the wordless dark. It was small but cosy, and had everything they needed. The driver fetched the dog’s bed from the car and layered it with snuggly blankets. They peeled off the thick layers of coats and fleeces and kicked trainers into the wardrobe. Cups of tea and a packet of cookies from the car. Then they sat in silence. Except it wasn’t silent. Not one bit. It wouldn’t be silent for hours to come with the party downstairs in full swing. Everyone went to bed, with the dog grumbling at the noise disturbing her beauty sleep. Finally, around 4am, it fell silent. They slept gratefully.
First light crept around the curtains, yellowy and pale. The dog woofed quietly and was let up on the bed as a treat. She jumped over the pair happily and licked their faces awake. Kibble was dug out from a rucksack for a 5* star canine breakfast-in-bed experience. Later, the three went downstairs to find a full English waiting. They paused for a split second, then watched two years of vegetarianism fly out of the window as they suddenly realised how hungry they were. Sorry, animals. They chatted to the young owner and explained what had happened the night before, the absolute horror slowly fading into a wild fever dream. He smiled to himself. Silly tourists.
They spent the morning chatting with the owner, the dog quietly working on her chew under the table and occasionally exploring her new surroundings and cuddling up by the log burner. “Snow’s coming down,” the owner said.The pair’s eyes widened. “Really?” They both peered out of the window and he wasn’t wrong. There was a steady blizzard starting to fall.
“Power’s still out in most of the county, you know,” the owner said. “Especially over in Eskdale.” That’s where the Bothy was. The long-forgotten destination from the night before. It had faded into a sludgy, repressed memory already. The home comforts of the pub, the hot coffee, warm log burner, cosy dog and safety had made it all fade like so much smoke. They explained what had happened. The Pass already drifting into a bad dream. He shook his head. “We have to rescue people off there sometimes. Chains on your wheels, that’s the way.”
Hours went by. They had two choices: stay another night or risk the homeward journey. Home was calling.
They packed the car back up, wearily layering on fleeces and jackets and hats, and made their way back through the snow-covered landscape. Desolately pretty countryside transformed into shell-shocked towns clearing trees from the roads, sectioned-off byways and empty local streets. The motorway wound into sight, and the journey truly began. It was snowing in earnest now, and great drifts lay across the hard-shoulder, smothering the motorway in a slushy blanket. The yellow-grey sky heavy with silence.
They hit the first service station for snacks around 3pm, the light already fading in the November air. “I wish we could still have a holiday,” the driver sighed. The passenger rummaged about on Airbnb and found a last-minute booking in Derbyshire. It was practically on the way home, but worth the detour to scrape some semblance of ‘holiday’ out of the trip. Hours of heavy, snow-filled traffic stood between them and the destination, but they slogged on. The dog slept peacefully, occasionally waking to chomp on a chew and stare out of the window into the dark. Finally, the junction for the second Airbnb — the last-ditch attempt at salvaging a holiday. They took the turn, and entered the thickest blizzard they’d come across. It had been fine on the motorway, but 10 minutes into the edge of the Peaks and it was a different story. Fuck’s sake. They couldn’t drive through this. Sheepishly messaging the Airbnb host and apologising like mad, they turned that car right round, like the threat of all parents, and got back on the motorway. No one spoke for miles.
The end was almost in sight, except it didn’t look like there’d been much snow at home at all. The roads were clear, for the most part, with smatterings of that gross, brown-tinged excuse for snow you get in Midlands cities. The road at home was slippy, though. More black ice. They laughed — this was nothing. They got inside, flooded with relief. The dog, now hyper from being in the car all day, had a swift zoom around the house, tail tucked and eyes wild, then finally flopped gratefully onto the sofa. When the passenger, now free of the car and perhaps ready to be named The Woman, let the dog into the back yard, something was wrong. The light was weird, cramped and extra dark. She didn’t think about it too much and went to bed. In the morning, the full extent of the cramped feeling was suddenly clear. The ivy that lined the dividing garden wall, that damn ivy they spent hours wrestling into submission twice a year to stop it taking over the entire yard, stretching 10 metres tall in places, had collapsed. Brilliant. It trailed limply across the top of the adjacent outbuildings and a significant amount of next door’s yard was visible where the wall should be. They both peered through the gap. The heavy water weight of snow on the top of the plant had caused it to topple and brought several bricks down with it. Not salvageable.
They made the calls. December passed in a blur of emergency gardeners, builders, sickness, Christmas and recovery. When Boxing Day finally arrived, The Woman fished out her phone and booked the safest place she could think of. Cornwall. Nothing bad had ever happened to them there. That was the happy place, the safe place. Only 4 months to wait. They sat and enjoyed the rebuilt wall and waited for spring.