I'm just going out for a walk. I may be some time.

All my own fault. I’d heard the weather warning at lunchtime but I didn’t think it would actually amount to anything. Back then there was still a healthy amount of blue sky. Surely, there couldn’t be enough snow falling in a couple of hours to make me end up walking home, could there?

Well, I was right. There really wasn’t that much snow. Not by Captain Scott’s standards. I’ve certainly seen (and driven) through plenty worse. The problem was that it rained. Not for terribly long, but just long enough to cover the roads with a sheet of ice. Deep joy.

After a few miles I joined a long queue of cars that were struggling to get up the hill to Queensbury. It’s not even as if Queensbury is the sort of place that people would want to queue to get into. It’s famous for being the highest village in Yorkshire. Or something like that. Not the sort of place that people normally wait in line for. After quite a wait it seemed pretty obvious that nobody was actually making it up the hill, so a few of the people at the front decided to turn round. Until then I hadn’t actually noticed that nobody seemed to be coming down the hill, either. It was only when those who had turned around slipped past me sideways that I realised we were in for some fun.

I watched everyone else make a mess of things and then told myself I could do better than that. I have nice fat tyres and plenty of experience. I could turn round on a little bit of a slippery road, couldn't I? It wasn't as if I was likely to lose my grip with all my….. Oh, bugger.

Everything had been going fine until I tried to steer and brake at the same time. I was heading into a lovely green-lit junction, but I needed to turn right even though the car was completely convinced that straight on would be much more fun. Worse still, I needed to wait my turn, but the car had had enough of waiting patiently. In the end we compromised for a forty five degree traverse across the path of oncoming traffic with my hazard warning lights on and everyone having the good sense to keep well out of the way. Somehow I avoided everyone, or at least everyoe avoided me, but it was definitely more by luck than judgement on my part. I think mine was just about the last car to make it through that ice rink.

Plan B was to head into Bradford and make my way home via the city and the busier valley roads. I figured that the sheer volume of traffic would be enough to keep the roads passable. But as I head down the hill into town, I saw brake lights go on ahead, and as soon as I tried to stop, felt the familiar rumble that meant the car wasn’t really in a mood for stopping. There was no reduction in speed at all. I tried again. Twice, three times. Thankfully the car in front couldn’t stop either, and as her little 4 x 4 turned through ninety degrees ahead of me, I looked in the mirror and saw a dark blue Transit doing exactly the same thing. Somehow, again, we all managed to avoid smacking into each other and anyone else, despite ploughing through a Pelican Crossing to the amazement of onlookers.

I think this is what’s called Brown Trousers Time. Anyway, I’d had enough. I found a side street and parked up, deciding on the spot that I’d walk it home even if it took me all night. Anything had to be better than introducing oncoming traffic to my front bumper.

Thankfully I’d already packed my weekend bag (because it was supposed to have been my weekend to visit Itchy and Scratchy) so at least I had extra warm gear to change into. I put my best foot forward, and worked out that if I had to walk the whole way I would probably make it back by about midnight. A few minutes later I watched a police car lose its back end, and walked past a couple of salesmen who were swapping insurance details next to their newly compacted BMWs.

So I made the calls. I apologised to the kids that Daddy would have to come down some other time. I called home and explained what was going on to Karen and she automatically switched to Worried Sick Mode. Bless her. She may not be much use in a crisis, but at least she’s consistent. She said that there was a little bit of snow at home, but it was nothing like bad enough to stop traffic. Odd how the weather varies over such short distances. If I didn’t know better I’d think it was a conspiracy.

I took a short cut along some country lanes, passing the odd stranded motorist in various states of giving up and accepting the inevitable. At one point I met a family in a Sherpa who were trying to reverse up a slope that they’d polished so well you could’ve seen your face in it. I nodded to them as I went by, and they acknowledged me with worried looking smiles, each of them staring into space and quietly willing the wheels to grip, just a little.

After a couple of miles I made it back onto my usual route, heading up the hill towards Queensbury. The traffic going back the other way was nose to nose and at a complete stand-still. There was simply nobody going my way. It was quite spooky really. Every other driver wanted to know what the problem was, and I made a point in warning them all that the Brown Cow Junction was impassable and that the best thing to do would be to give up and turn around. This wasn’t due to any sense of civic duty, you understand. It’s just that I figured I had a better chance of scrounging a lift if I persuaded somebody to actually drive the way I was walking.

But it didn’t do much good. I kept my thumb out until it was blue, and all I got to show for it was a blue thumb. When I finally got to Queensbury (after walking past about three miles of completely stationary traffic) I called in a chip shop. “You’ll have to wait for chips love.” The woman sighed. “We’re snowed under with stranded motorists. Poor lad can’t cope.”

For the record, the chips at that shop must be the greasiest in Britain. But I was cold and hungry and they tasted divine. They picked up my spirits just enough to see me through the next few miles. The stationary cars were still lined up, but nobody was asking me what the problem was any more. They were relatively new to the queue, and hadn’t reached the point where they were desperate enough to ask a chip-eating stranger what was going on.

By that time I’d reached the opposite side of the hill and was heading down into the valley that would lead all the way to Huddersfield, There was still snow on the ground, but it looked relatively safe to drive on. This must have been the extent of the rain that had caused all the ice trouble, which meant that the roads were probably safe for the rest of the way home. It was half past seven and I’d been walking for a good couple of hours. My work shoes were pinching and I was fed up with the whole Littlest Hobo thing. I called Karen.

“Hi. I’ve walked clear of the icy roads, but I’ve still got about twelve more miles to do before I get home. Can you come and get me?”

“I’d love to, sweetheart, but I promised my sister I’d babysit and I don’t want to be late.”

“Sorry? Have I got a bad signal? It’s going to take me about another four hours if I walk.”

“Oh dear. It’s just that you said you’d try to get a lift.”

“Yes. But nobody stopped.”

“Sorry, love. I don’t want to let her down.”

“Right.”

“Okay then?”

“Fine.”

”Sorry love. I feel a bit awkward.”

“No problem.”

“Bye then.”

I had thoughts in my head. I had words, too. None of them were terribly pleasant.

* * *

And that should have been the end. That would have been cool, wouldn’t it?

But it wasn’t. Five minutes later, a White Van Man passed by and stopped for me. He took me to within a mile of home, and jolly grateful I was, too. It just goes to show you that even when things look completely hopeless, you should always keep your thumb out.

On the way home he treated me to his interesting political views, which revolved around the fact that Enoch Powell had been right all along and that immigrants are coming in to the country to steal our jobs and bleed the good old English pensioners dry.

Naturally I corrected him. I told him he was a racist bigot and reminded him that he desperately needed the influx of cheap foreign workers to pay into the dwindling National Insurance pot and keep his pension going. I set him straight.

No I didn’t. His van was warm and dry, and the miles were slipping away with each passing minute. I sat and listened to his fascist monologue and nodded my head in all the right places.

I might have been a hypocrite, but at least I was a warm hypocrite.