Climate changes

BLOG CLIMATE

 

DURING THE 1980s, I lived and worked just over fifty miles south-east of central London in Gillingham, one of the Medway Towns in Kent. Usually, I drove to London on Saturday afternoons after my morning dental surgery session ended at 1 pm. Then, after buying innumerable gramophone records and later also CDs and seeing friends, I would spend the night at my father’s home before returning to Kent late on Sunday evening.

One winter Sunday evening, after visiting friends, who lived in South Hampstead close to the Royal Free Hospital, I began driving towards Kent. When I reached Lewisham in south-east London, snow began falling lightly. I thought nothing of it. By the time I arrived at the start of the M2 motorway, the situation had changed considerably. The motorway was under several inches of fresh snow. The few vehicles travelling at that late hour drove on a pair of groove-like tracks made in the snow by vehicles ahead of me. It was rather like the page in the song “Good King Wenceslas: ‘Mark my footsteps, my good page, Tread thou in them boldly … In his master’s steps he trod, Where the snow lay dinted’.

The snow continued to fall and by the time I reached the motorway exit west of the Medway Bridge, I decided that it might be better to drive through Strood, Rochester, and Chatham rather than along the motorway that by-passed these places along a hilly exposed rural route, which I believed might have been badly affected by the snow.

It was about 2am when I left the motorway. I joined a line of cars that was crawling slowly towards Rochester – a traffic jam at 2 am. Eventually, I drove across the River Medway on the bridge at Rochester. The traffic was slow moving and dense despite the time. I decided to leave the main road and follow a back road that wound around Rochester Castle and avoided the city centre. I drove about fifty yards upwards along a steep snow-covered lane and then the car would go no further. Its wheels were unable to grip the road and I slid down to the bottom of the hill where I had started. There was no choice. I had to re-join the slow procession of traffic crawling through the interlinked Medway towns.

When I reached Gillingham, it was long after 3 am. I turned off the main A2 road and drove, or rather slid, downhill along Nelson Road which was covered with deep snow. At my street, Napier Road, the snow was even deeper and had not been compressed by passing vehicles. I headed towards my house but could not reach it because my car became wedged in a drift of densely packed snow. It remained locked in the snow for over three weeks.

The following day, the Medway Towns were almost paralysed by the snow. However, the only stretch of railway that was still operating was between two neighbouring stations, Gillingham and Rainham, where my dental surgery was located.  I managed to reach my surgery by train in my Wellington boots and wore these whilst treating the few patients who decided not to cancel their appointments. The only patients who struggled through the snow that day were elderly people who considered that cancelling appointments was disrespectful to the professional. All those brave souls, who made it through the hazardous snow, were seeing me about false teeth.

Although the snow did not disappear from the Medway Towns for over three weeks, the rail service to London resumed quite quickly. So, I continued to make my weekly visits to the capital. Fifty miles from snow-covered Gillingham, London was free of snow. Exaggerating slightly, visiting London was like travelling from the Arctic to the Mediterranean. Few of my friends in London could believe that my home in Kent had sufficient snow to keep most skiers happy.

The spectacular change in climates that I experienced that winter when shuttling between London and Gillingham occurred long before the concept of ‘climate change’ became widespread in the public eye.

Whether it will rain or not

 

Whether the weather be fine
Or whether the weather be not,
Whether the weather be cold
Or whether the weather be hot,
We’ll weather the weather
Whatever the weather,
Whether we like it or not. 

[anonymous]

 

One of the best ways to engage a stranger in conversation in the UK is to begin talking about the weather. Because of its unpredictability in the British Isles, there is always much to discuss.

There is at least one explanation of why it is so difficult to forecast British weather reliably. I read about it in a book about chaos theory some years ago, so please forgive me if my explanation is not totally clear. As I understand it, weather forecasting is done using mathematical models involving a complex set of  interlinked equations. The forecaster feeds multiple parameters into the equations, and a result is obtained that allows the weather to be predicted reasonably accurately. This model is quite reliable in many parts of the world, but not here in the UK. The problem is that when the parameters for the region containing the British Isles, whose weather system is affected by far more complex and many more influences than in other places (I do not know why), are fed into this set of equations, instead of one solution, several appear because the parameters introduce a large degree of instability into the forecasting model. Hence, the uncertainty in British forecasting that occurs. 

Nowadays, I use a popular weather forecasting app on my mobile ‘phone. It provides several predictions of what the weather will be like during different times of the day and several days following it. Potentially useful are the rainfall predictions which are expressed as a percentage, 0% being ‘rain completely unlikely’ and 100% being ‘rain inevitable’. So far, so good.

If the app predicts rainfall of less than about 5%, I do not bother to take an umbrella or rain coat, otherwise I do. Things can go wrong. Suddenly, out of the blue, rain falls heavily. I look at my app. Suddenly, what had been a prediction of, say, 3% becomes a prediction of, say, 78%. The app appears to be responding to the weather (or recording it), rather than predicting it.

Moral of the story: take an umbrella.

 

Poem from: https://www.poemhunter.com/poems/weather/page-1/22212436/#content

The simple life

KILSHANNIG 76 Standing stone

 

A long time ago, I remember seeing an advertisement issued either by Aer Lingus or the Irish tourist board, which said:

“In Ireland, it rains every fifteen minutes for a quarter of an hour”

During my first visit to the Republic of Ireland (Eire) back in 1976, I stayed with some friends in their secluded country house far south of Dublin. Remote as it was, it had a telephone, but it was without a dial. To use the ‘phone, it was necessary to lift the receiver and then turn a small crank several times. This crank sent a signal to the operator at the exchange, who then connected you to the switchboard. Next, you told the operator which number you required, and he or she then tried to connect you.

One night, there was a fierce storm with much wind. On the morning following, one of our party wished to make a ‘phone call. After several attempts to alert the operator with the cranking mechanism, we concluded that the storm had damaged the line connecting the house to the exchange. We thought that it would take many days before this would be repaired. One of my friends suggested that we got in the car and followed the telephone line to discover how and where it was damaged.

Soon, we found the place where the problem had occurred. The wind had caused the two wires that led to the house to become tangled in the branches of the tree. One of my friends stood on the roof of our vehickle and using a long stick, a branch that had been brought down by the storm, managed to disentangle the wires. When we returned to the house, we discovered that the problem had been resolved. Life was so simple in those days!