Snowbound at Britain's Highest Pub: A Journalist's Tale of Camaraderie and Escape
Among all the stories I have covered throughout my career as a reporter, one experience consistently captures people's imagination: the four days I spent snowed in at Britain's highest pub last year. It was early January 2025, and the Met Office had issued severe weather warnings for heavy snowfall across the region. As the forecasts grew more dire, I realised that many were about to live out a classic British fantasy—being trapped in a cosy pub during a blizzard. I knew exactly where I needed to be: The Tan Hill Inn, perched high in the wilderness on the northern edge of the Yorkshire Dales National Park.
A Hasty Journey into the Storm
I quickly packed a bag and collected Gary Calton, the acclaimed Guardian photographer, for what we anticipated would be a brief assignment. Fat snowflakes began to fall from the night sky mere hours after we arrived and were welcomed into the warm, inviting atmosphere of the pub. Inside, drinks flowed freely, and laughter echoed as the stranded customers embraced the novelty of their situation. It soon became apparent that we would not be leaving anytime soon. By 8pm, we received word that the road to the pub was about to be closed, urging anyone not planning to stay overnight to attempt a swift exit. For Gary and me, however, the conditions had already grown too dark and treacherous to risk the journey.
Life in a Snowbound Sanctuary
We managed to secure the last two available beds, though the accommodation was far from ideal. While I typically enjoy the camaraderie of communal lodging, sharing a room with half a dozen inebriated men and their damp socks did not promise a restful night's sleep. Over the following days, we bonded with people from around the world, all united by this extraordinary circumstance. We shared meals, exchanged jokes, played games, organised a massive snowball fight, and even held an impromptu disco. One fellow guest remarked that it had been "one of the best times of my entire life."
Despite the festive atmosphere, my work as a journalist continued. I wrote and filed stories throughout the ordeal, though it proved challenging to think coherently amid the constant noise and antics. With the small pub surrounded by a frozen tundra, there was nowhere to retreat for a moment of solitude. On several occasions, I pretended to need the toilet simply to steal a few minutes of personal space.
The Perilous Escape Attempt
On the morning of the fourth day, news arrived that a snowplough was en route to clear a path. The timing would be tight, as harsh winds whipped snow back over the roads almost as quickly as they were cleared. We dug our car out, preparing for a swift departure. After watching a chain of vehicles wind away into the distance, we jumped into our car and attempted to follow. Gary shouted directions like a rally co-driver as I navigated left and right, occasionally feeling the eerie near-weightlessness of a skid. These roads demanded intense concentration even in optimal conditions—steep, winding, and flanked by sheer drops.
Despite our best efforts, and the £300 I had invested in winter tyres, we could not avoid disaster. The car slid downhill and landed with a dull crunch on a snow bank, its wheels spinning helplessly. Stranded miles from another human being, we realised with dismay that we had left the snow shovel back at the pub. Using only our gloved hands and a camera tripod, we laboured for about an hour to free the vehicle.
Return to Civilisation and Reflection
It felt almost surreal when we finally reached gritted roads and the familiar bustle of civilisation, encountering ordinary people going about their daily routines. The car juddered violently as I drove—apparently, the crash had caused significant damage—but we had to find a place to file our stories and photographs before the day's deadline. With a touch of irony, we ended up seeking refuge in another pub.
The final article I wrote about the Tan Hill Inn experience, composed while exhausted, sweaty, and with still-shaking hands, was later included in the annual Bedside Guardian book. It serves as a sweet memento of a truly bizarre adventure—one I would recommend for its unique camaraderie, though in future snowstorms, I will not be rushing back to the pub.
