Frozen Assets
Many years ago when global warming was but a gleam in the eye of climate scientists and carbon dioxide levels were only found in fizzy drinks, the winter weather in Rannoch could look the Arctic right in the eye without shame.
In those days when winters took no prisoners and polar bears were just over the horizon, minus fifteen degrees centigrade was a commonplace occurrence. The rugged inhabitants of Rannoch shrugged off the cold as a Mallard shrugs off pond water. Six foot drifts of snow were as common as bankers in a crisis and icicles the length of spears decorated every roan. Frost turned the ground to iron. The banks of the burns were transformed into magical organ pipes of ice. The flow solidified into blue-white translucent ice with black flickers of liquid still gurgling beneath like the last gasp and wriggle of trapped summer tadpoles.
The roads were blocked by snow for days. Snow ploughs were immobilised, overwhelmed by drifts of snow and had to be rescued by other ploughs. Flocks of sheep had to be dug from their temporary tombs by JCB. People skied down Beinn a’Chuallaich and Schiehallion. Pylons collapsed under the weight of ice.
It was then that the inhabitants of Rannoch School issued the traditional clarion call - “Where is Nevill Mangin?” It was time to auger the ice.
The pupils and staff of a Rannoch School would rise as one and seek out ice. This might be at the school reservoir high above Dall or it might be at Bridge of Gaur. Nevill would be transported by Land Rover complete with his legendary equipment - a ladder, a length of rope and hand auger. With care, the urbane classics master manoeuvred himself with supporting ladder and emergency rope onto the ice where he drilled a hole in the ice. The assembled host awaited a sign as portentous as any papal smoke - the cry went up “Yes, six inches!”.
Thereupon skates were affixed to eager feet and happy people of all generations took to the ice. Some were hesitant beginners, some were arrogant experts, some had ice hockey skates, some had figure skating skates with the teeth at the front of the blade. One who will remain nameless even pushed his infant son in a pram whilst skating on the ice. At Bridge of Gaur, Loch Rannoch itself froze across from shore to shore and it was even possible to drive a Land Rover onto the ice. The loch was crossed on skates and cross country skis.
The Rannoch Bonspiel took place at Lochan an Daim with elegant granite curling stones scudding over the ice, only slightly hindered by reeds.
In winters such as these, frosty trees sparkled like multi-hued diamonds in the low sunlight. The ice was latticed with the white slashes of joyous blades. The mulled wine flowed on the shores of lochs and lochans. Toboggans hurtled with laughing children down snowy slopes and icy tracks. Hill walkers sank in snow to their thighs as they climbed Schiehallion to view the now snow-sculpted summit to view snowy peak after snowy peak stretching to the far beyond in all directions under an egg-shell blue sky. The ridges were coated in wind-aligned crystals like ice daggers - so many frozen gems in serried ranks. Hard ice encrusted snow lay close to treacherous cornices that had been whipped by stinging spindrift into curvaceous jutting overhangs ready to avalanche.
When the snow fell with heavy flakes into the lights of houses or streets lamps, then look up! It is mesmeric, cascading, wonderful, ever renewing and Dickensian.
Will such a winter come again?