The Frozen Northlands

So, thanks to a very generous offer from Kathryn’s mom, we found ourself with the option of a four-star holiday in a Victorian hotel in Harrogate. Actually, there were a whole bunch of options from many places, but after much debate, Harrogate seemed the most practical and whilst it would almost certainly cost the same as a holiday outside the UK, it would do so in quiet easy to bite off chunks, so we could pretend we could afford it more easily (we were tempted by Paris, or Prague; but the cost of getting there, whilst not horrendous was enough to make both Kathryn and I pause).

The journey, one would think would be simple. And in most regards it was, we trundled off from Bristol, the sonorous wail of the 1300 and the slightly tired Morris Minor diff keeping us company was we trekked up the motorway. But as we neared our destination the weather deteriorated. I muttered a comment about the rain looking quite like sleat, and a then it was snow. We transitioned from flying up the motorway to creeping; the Minor’s tiny wiper blades beating against the mounting snow with increasing futility.
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