The Beast from the East, February 1979.

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It had been cold all week up to now. A brutal North Easterly wind scoured the coast in sub-zero temperatures under leaden skies. I was working in Grimsby, awaiting the board’s approval of my permanent posting, still travelling back to Coventry at the weekends. That Thursday morning, St. Valentine’s Day 1979, was no different to any other that week: still bitterly cold as I left the guest house at 8am for the twenty minute drive to work. As I crossed over the traffic lights where Grimsby Road, Cleethorpes, transforms itself into Cleethorpes Road, Grimsby, I felt the wind rock the car and saw the first flurries of snow caught in the headlights’ glow.

By the time I reached the next set of lights, at the junction with Freeman Street and Fishdock Road, the traffic seemed to be at a standstill, nothing moving when the lights changed. The snow was still fine and light, though driven by that bitter wind. There was now a light dusting of white powder on the road being picked up and swirled around by the wind, mingling with the steam from vehicle exhaust pipes.

Eventually the traffic in front of me began to move forward slowly. I switched into the right-hand lane by the derelict Alexandra Theatre, ready to turn right onto the swing bridge. As I made the turn into the wind, the snow began to plaster the windscreen and I turned on the wipers. Beyond the swing bridge, the road climbs briefly. It was here that I discovered the cause of the hold up. Heavy vehicles were struggling to negotiate the incline, their rear wheels spinning, causing them to snake slowly forwards.

Beyond the dock estate the road to the plant runs parallel to the coast, about half a mile inland. That half mile consists of a flat cultivated field – or it did then. The field is separated from the road by a low hedge and a ditch. Here I was to learn the meaning of the expression ‘white out’. The road, the sky, the field, were all white. Snow flakes swirled around the car. The only guide I had, as I covered the mile or so of straight road to the plant entrance, was the red glow from the rear lights of the car in front of me. Its driver, like me, an employee arriving later than usual to work that morning.

My morning routine, having arrived in the office, was to take a walk around the various projects for which I had responsibility. This necessitated a quarter mile walk outside. I donned waterproof over-trousers, wellingtons and a hooded waterproof, carrying the hard hat and goggles I would be obliged to wear inside the plant. Snow stung my face and I turned my head to the side so that the hood took the brunt of the storm’s blast. Where the internal factory road turned a corner between two buildings set at an angle to each other, snow was piling into a huge drift.

By noon I was back in the office, nursing a mug of hot tea. In the meeting room all eight of us Engineers were gathered around the conference table to hear the Chief Engineer explain that the road leading to the plant was completely blocked, the narrow channel between low hedges creating the perfect repository for every flake of snow the wind scoured from the farmer’s field. Nothing could get in or out of the plant. No deliveries, no collections.

Of greater importance was the fact that a change of shifts was due at 3pm. The road needed to be open, both to enable the employees due to arrive to do so, and to ensure those leaving were able to do so safely.

Bucket Loader

The plant generated its own steam and electrical power by means of a bank of nine boiler and generator sets, 4 coal powered, 5 oil fired. The company employed two large bucket loaders to move coal around the yard. It was agreed that one of these would be deployed to clear the road. The cars belonging to incoming employees would be held at the entrance to the road, then led in, in convoy, behind the bucket loader. The loader would then lead the vehicles containing departing workers away from the plant. This process would be repeated as often as necessary to complete the change-over.

With this operation completed, the day staff, officially due to leave at 5pm., would be led out. Finally, those of us who would normally leave at 5:30 would be led out. We were left in no doubt that this operation would take some considerable time and that we would likely be here until well after six.

There are 3 other plants, further North along the Humber Bank. Two produce Titanium Dioxide and the other, fertiliser. I learned the following day that staff at one of those had been unable to leave their plant and remained there over-night.

I had hoped that, by Friday afternoon, the roads out of Grimsby would have been cleared. They were not. So I had to spend an extra night in the Cleethorpes boarding house, journeying to Coventry on Saturday morning. By my return on Monday morning most of the snow had cleared, just the drifts under the hedges remaining.

Gang Show

And here is an odd thing. Four weeks later, on Friday 15th March, there was another heavy snow storm that prevented me travelling to Coventry until Saturday morning. That was a bigger blow, personally, than February’s winter blast had been. My son, Ian, was a scout and was in the Gang Show company. Their show was playing Saturday night in the Coventry Theatre. I had to be there. More than that, the plan was that I would drive to Hereford on Saturday morning to collect my mother and her husband so that they could see her grandson’s performance. That part of the plan had to be abandoned, but I did get to see the show.

9 thoughts on “The Beast from the East, February 1979.

  1. Enjoyed your tale. I also enjoy looking at, or even walking in, snow; but driving in it can be a nightmare. And I don’t believe Britain handles snow any better now than we did 40 years ago. To be fair, it’s a pretty rare occurrence for most of the country, so I guess it would be wasting money to spend more on coping better…

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Thanks Mike. Like much else we don’t get ’em like we used to (and it’s not the EU’s fault!). I can remember 1947 – snowed in for weeks in the foothills of the Black Mountains. I was due to start school after Christmas – had to wait until Easter. And then doing my courting in the early months of 1963 + learning to drive. Salt was not much used back then – it would have rotted vehicle chasis. Instead grit was sprayed onto frozen snow to provide some grip. On the warmer days the snow would melt, become rutted and then freeze again at night. The 3 miles to my fiancee’s home on a bicycle was a nightmare. The thought of having to do it again the following year was factored into the decision to marry in September ’63.


  3. I remember the 1963 snow well. For us it started on the evening of Boxing Day ’62 and we didn’t see the ground again until March. The roads out of the village to school and my parents’ workplaces were very hilly – it was often quite eventful!

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Fun story, well written. Such would be common-place for those of us living in Canada. The Peace River country, where we ended up in 1951 after our “escape” from France, presented us with “the beast from the east” (only it was from any and all directions) from November until April. The term “chain up!” has a particular meaning for us.
    Even here, in the balmy south-west, I spent last Saturday morning with my snow blower clearing out driveways and part of the streets nearby so the neighbours had a chance to move. Right now, it’s snow mixed with rain and it could go either way again.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. I love stories like this, Frank! I grew up in New York, and though I’ve lived in seasonless Los Angeles for the past seventeen years, whenever I’m home at Christmas, I live for the possibility that a heavy winter storm will blanket the city; I’ve made something of a tradition of taking a walk through the winter woods on the banks of the Hudson River, a solitary practice that inspires the Gothic horror fiction I write. I love the snow — always have. It has its inconveniences, as I know well, but as a source of artistic inspiration, it’s priceless.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. 1982 is being talked about here in Ireland as one of the worst. I must say I don’t recall it being all that bad in UK – not able to qualify as the ‘Winter from Hell’ anyway. There was “The Winter of Discontent” but that referred to widespread industrial unrest at the end of 1979, nothing to do with the weather. I googled worst UK winters and found this: I have the dubious pleasure of having lived through 3 of the 10 worst!


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