Winter of '63

The winter of 1963 was a real winter. The kind of winter that in later years we would reminisce over and maintain that all of the winters of our youth were like this.

I don't know when it started snowing in Dunblane, but the snow lay on the ground for months. In primary school our uniform consisted of a blazer, dark grey short trousers (skirts for the girls), grey shirts and the school tie. No allowances were made for cold weather and we went to school with bare knees,  in the snow, in freezing temperatures. No quilted parkas or moon boots for us. Most of our clothes were cotton or wool based which meant that once wet, we stayed wet!

Sledging was a great winter pastime and, despite being wet and frozen to the marrow, we stayed out all day enjoying the thrill of thundering down the appointed hill. In my case it was the hill behind our house in Cromlix Crescent. It extended through two fields from Anchorscross farm to the Skinny Woods. The first field was pretty good but that year the farmer had harvested his barley and left the stubble behind. That spoiled the snow somewhat so we moved over to the next field behind the newly built Murdoch Terrace.

Many of the fathers also took to the slopes and built what we youngsters regarded as a fantastic toboggan run.

Building has altered the slope and it is nowhere as steep as it was in those days, but the toboggan run began at the top of the hill and was so icy that you could have slid down it in your shoes. On a sledge it was as close to a winter heaven that we could come.

You started at the top and rode the sledge diagonally to the left, across the slope, before negotiating a right hand bend and continuing diagonally in the opposite direction. A final turn at the bottom led to a short stretch running parallel to the new gardens of Murdoch Terrace where the tobogganist came safely to a stop after an exhilarating ride. At least, that was the theory.....

With speed in mind rather than aesthetics George Bundy decided to cut across the course and sledge straight down the hill. Taking a running start, he hopped onto his sledge. Like many of us who disdained the sitting position, he lay prone on his craft with head forward in the 'devil-may-care, couldn't care less if I smash my head against a wall and you can keep your cissy crash helmet to yourself,' position. Gathering more speed, he hurtled down the increasing angle of the hill. Then it occurred to us......at that speed he wouldn't be able to stop before the fence.

The fence was a very ordinary one of its type. Simple four sided posts with three strands of wire strung between them, stretching the length of the newly built Murdoch Terrace. My first thought now, as an adult, is of a cheese slicer. Thank goodness that was not quite the description that sprang to mind then, as George careered downhill towards the wires.

We clenched our teeth and watched through screwed up eyes as the inevitable happened. George was the irresistible force and the fence was the immovable object. As he hit, there was an almighty twang from the wires and a gasp from George that reverberated around the hill. The sledge continued under the fence, across the back garden and crashed to a stop against the wall of the house while George dangled from the fence, spreadeagled legs and arms entwined in the wires like a jenny long legs thrashing about in a spider's web.

We rushed down the hill to help him free but before we arrived on the scene he had already disentangled himself from the fence. He was quite contented. He had enjoyed the ride of his life and escaped with only a few bruises and grazes. The lad was indestructible.

Inspired by George's daring-do, I decided that the time was ripe for my contribution to the day's entertainment. Halfway down the hill I began building my ski-jump. Heaping copious amounts of snow up into a large pile I then tramped it down to give a solid base and shaped it to what I believed would be the best form to afford me lift-off.

My audience awaited expectantly as I took my running start and sledged, slowly at first, then gathering the needed momentum to become airborne, I neared the prepared ramp of snow at high speed. Alas, my calculations were erroneous. The ski-jump was not solid enough. As I hit it, the runners on my sledge simply sank into the snow and the sledge stopped!

 I didn't!  I flew through the air and did my impression of a snowplough burrowing headfirst through the white stuff, scattering flurries of snow to either side before coming to an ungainly halt several yards beyond my jumping-off point. My so-called friends seemed to enjoy the spectacle of failure better than if I had succeeded so my embarrassment did not last long.

Another incident which I recall happened on the other side of the hill from the bobsleigh run. At the bottom of the hill was a very boggy area which Ewan Simpson aka 'Silly', and I explored the summer before. After spending hours getting our feet wet, we discovered a dry path through what we would come to regard later as an alligator infested swamp for the purposes of our intrepid adventures.

Now in winter the 'swamp' was thoroughly frozen. Despite this, 'Silly' and I demonstrated our prowess as explorers by leading Ewen MacMillan and Colin McLaren through to the other side where the mighty Amazon flowed.( The mighty Amazon I might hasten to add was, in reality, a burn of about two yards from one bank to the other.) A layer of ice covered this famous tropical river and yours truly decided to test its strength by standing on it. 'Nothing could go wrong,' I thought, as I was wearing wellies. However I did not realise that the water was so deep and as I collapsed through the ice I ended up standing in knee high freezing water, the wellies now filled with the aforesaid freezing water.

Panic set in in our group. How was I to avoid frostbite? After a discussion during which time my feet were becoming more and more numb it was decided to follow Ewen MacMillan's learned wisdom. The only way to avoid frostbite was to take off the freezing, wet socks and wellies and go home, barefoot, through the snow. This, Ewen assured us, was what travellers to the North Pole did if their feet became wet!

And so we traipsed through the snow, a half mile up and over the hill to my house and dry, warm socks. The others took turns to help support me and get me through the ordeal. A marvellous memory of childhood solidarity and mutual help that I remember to this day................but I owe you one for those cold feet, Ewen!!!!!

The swamp no longer exists as the bypass now cuts a swathe through the area and, where we once careered recklessly down the snowclad slopes, stand the houses of Wallace Road and Coldstream Avenue now.