Four Days Snowed In at The Tan Hill Inn: A Yorkshire Dales Tale

The Tan Hill Inn, Yorkshire Dales In all my years of reporting, nothing seems to fascinate people more than the four days I spent snowed in at Britain’s highest pub last year. It was early January and the Met Office had issued severe warnings for snow. It dawned on me that people were about to live out a British fantasy of being snowed in at their local pub. I knew where I needed to be: The Tan Hill Inn, high up in the wilderness on the very northern edge of the Yorkshire Dales national park. I packed a bag and picked up Gary Calton, the acclaimed Guardian photographer. Fat snowflakes appeared out of the night sky just hours after we were welcomed into the warmth of the pub. Inside, drinks were flowing and the laughs forthcoming as the locked-in customers settled into the novelty of the experience. Within hours it was clear we weren’t going anywhere. Then at 8pm we had word that the road to the pub was about to be closed and anyone who had not intended to stay the night would need to attempt a swift exit. For us, by then it was too dark and treacherous to risk it. Gary and I had managed to get the last two beds and, though I like the camaraderie of communal lodging, a room of bunkbeds filled with half a dozen drunk men with wet socks isn’t the ideal condition for a restful night’s sleep. Over the next couple of days we got to know people from all over the world, united by this unique experience. We ate together, joked and played games together, had a mass snowball fight and a disco. One man told me it had been “one of the best times of my entire life”. I was writing stories and filing them as I went along, but it was hard to think coherently with the constant rabble of different antics, and, with the small pub surrounded by tundra, there was nowhere to escape for a moment to myself. I pretended I needed the toilet on a few occasions in order to have some personal space. On the morning of day four we got word that the snowplough was coming. The timings would be tight. The harsh wind was whipping the snow over roads as quickly as they were cleared. We dug the car out, ready to leave. After seeing the chain of vehicles wind away and out of sight, we jumped in and attempted to follow. Gary shouted like a rally co-driver as I steered left and right, occasionally experiencing the eerie near-weightlessness of a skid. These were roads that required concentration at the best of times – steep and winding with some sheer drops at the roadside. But our best efforts – and the £300 I’d spent on winter tyres – ultimately couldn’t save us. The car slid downhill and we heard a dull crunch as it deposited itself on a snow bank, wheels spinning. Miles from another human being, we realised we had left the snow shovel at the pub. Using our gloved hands and a camera tripod, over a period of about an hour we freed the car. It was almost spooky when we made it to gritted roads and civilisation, encountering ordinary people going about their day. The car was juddering violently as I drove – apparently the crash had done some damage – but we had to find somewhere to file our words and pictures before that day’s deadline. With some irony, we ended up in a pub. The final Tan Hill Inn story I wrote – exhausted, sweaty and with still-shaking hands – made it into the annual Bedside Guardian book. It’s a sweet memento of a bizarre experience – one I’d recommend, though in future snowstorms I won’t be rushing to the pub.