We had a mass snowball fight and a disco, and I slept in a room full of drunk men with wet socks. It was fun, but in future snowstorms I won’t be rushing to the pub
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.
