A Wintry Tale This is a true story. It happened to me a few years ago, when I was travelling around Ireland in a horse-drawn wagon. I was camped for the winter months in a small fairgreen, not far from the Glen of the Downs, in County Wicklow. It was mid-winter and a bitterly cold night, and I was fast asleep, tucked up in my bed in the barrel-top wagon. Due to the dangers of travelling, I was always a light sleeper, and in the middle of the night, I woke with a start. Something had disturbed me. I lay there, listening, but all was quiet. A light breeze stirred outside, but not enough to trouble my sleep. Occasionally, on windy nights, I might have to get up and move the wagon around, so that its tail end was into the wind. On really bad nights, I might even have to spend some time, tying it down, lest it blow over. This was not one of those nights. I was in a sheltered dip, half way up a hill, and there was an old stone wall beside my wagon for extra shelter. I lay there, listening, but no further sound came. My dog, a young German Shepherd pup, had not stirred from his slumber, which was a good sign. Young though he was, he was a good guard dog. I must have drifted off again for I woke with a start. It was a noise that had woken me. I was sure this time. Someone had thrown something against the canvas siding on the wagon. Slowly, quietly, I slipped out from under the blankets and crouched on the floor of the wagon. Quickly and with as much stealth as possible, I dressed and slipped my feet into my combat boots. Baba, my pup, stirred and got sleepily to his feet. Whatever it was out there, it had yet to set the dog to growling. I stroked his head to reassure him and reached over for my trusty Bill Hook. I could wake up in pitch darkness and know where this weapon was. At times, my life depended on it: So much for civilisation and the freedom of the open road. Sometimes, usually just after pubs had closed on a weekend, you had to fight for that freedom quite vigorously. On more than one occasion, Id had to defend myself and my home, from drunken yobs. I crept to the front of the wagon, where a blanket and canvas door kept out the worst of the winters chill. Carefully, I pulled the cover aside, ready to spring into combat at any moment. The world outside was deathly quiet, and it was snowing heavily. Sometime during the night, a heavy snow shower had blown in and the world was white and wonderful to behold. A light breeze drifted the heavy snowflakes as they descended to the earth. There were no sounds outside, no car engines ticking over, no tyre tracks on the road. Not even any footprints in the freshly fallen snow. So who could be throwing snowballs onto my wagon in the middle of the night? It was freezing cold out there, and not the sort of night for practical jokes or skulduggery. I waited for a few minutes, and heard nothing, so I started to relax. The dog had poked his head out of the gap, also, and he gave me a sleepy look as if to say, What are you up out of bed for, theres nothing out there. Ive got this! Giving him an affectionate pat on the head, I threw a few more logs into the burner. Then, I slipped back under the covers, and went back to sleep. The same thing happened again, in the early hours of the next morning, as the sun was reddening the sky with morning light. I finally gave up on sleep and got dressed, intent on find out the culprits and giving them a swift kick up the arse for their trouble. Loading up the fire, and opening the vent to let the flames catch, I stuck a pot of coffee on to boil and headed outside to face the morning. The dog wandered off calmly to water the flowers, or anything else he could find. I walked down the hill to where my stallion was staked out by the ruins of an old church. I found no other tracks in the snow, as I fed the horse some nuts and checked his water. He was a hardy piebald and well able to winter out in this weather, but I would have to get him some hay if the snow continued, to supplement his diet. I still couldn’t figure out what had woken me up. It was a mystery. I decided to check out the field above the wagon, at the top op the hill, just in case some lunatic had decided to use this route to ruin my nights sleep. So there I was, standing there, looking down the hill at the smoke drifting up from my stove pipe, when I heard the distinctive popping sound. It was the same sound Id heard in the night, the sound that was like a snowball hitting the canvas. And yet, there was no-one about. The morning was deserted and any sane person would be tucked up in bed against the cold. What could possibly have caused the sound? Suddenly, it dawned on me. The green canvas of my barrel-top wagon was coated in a thick layer of frozen snow. The heat inside the wagon had been building up beneath the frozen snow, and every so often, the pressure of steam between the canvas and the snow became too much and it had burst its way out. This was what had caused the sound that woke me. There wasnt anyone out there after all, hiding under a bush and throwing snowballs on my roof. It was mere science that had been waking me up. I chuckled and shook my head at the revelation.
Posted on: Sat, 23 Nov 2013 10:00:30 +0000
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