WE stood in sad little groups along The Lane and watched it drain away.

There were some, I suppose, who were glad to see it go and with good reason: for those who make their living travelling in the Dales, it is at best a damned nuisance, at worst a danger to life and limb.

But for those of us who don't go anywhere very much, it was a welcome reminder of times past when Beggarsdale was the end of the earth for all but the hardiest travellers.

The snow that gripped the village from Christmas into the New Year has finally melted away. It hit us hard and lasted a long time, mostly because the shadow of Tup Fell keeps away what little sun there is.

We were cut off completely and, suddenly, we were the community that we used to be when I was nobbut a lad and winter came every year - real winter, I mean.

In writing this as the last patches of white shrink on the fells, I am tempting fate: by the time it appears, the Ice Age will have returned and there will be woolly mammoths bathing in Beggarsdale beck.

But, that said, we have not had a proper winter - with, snow, blizzards and icicles - for some 30 years or more. Perhaps the world was getting warmer well before global warming was invented.

I have been carrying a spade, wellies and a survival bag in the boot of the car since 1972 in case we get trapped in the snow somewhere - and have never yet used them.

In that time, I have only once failed to get the motor to Curmudgeon Corner - and that was when Cousin Kate, clearing the snow outside the post office, waved me down for a chat and I was unable to get going again.

I am old enough, just, to remember the winter of 1946/47 when we were snowed in for the best part of two months and we all survived. We humans, that is - the farmers lost hundreds of head of stock and some never fully recovered from the financial blow.

Back then, we expected bad winters and prepared for them. Every cottage would have a pile of cut logs neatly stacked by the end of November, the coal-sheds would be full, and home-grown spuds and other veg would be carefully stored.

Nobody, as far as I knew, had a deep freeze in those days but we did have stocks of pickles and some of the older women still salted and cured hams and the like.

Whole cheeses would last for months in a cold larder and every household kept a good stock of flour and baking items. You see, women in those days baked not just cakes but their own crusty bread that came steaming fresh from the oven in the fireside grate. I can smell it now after close on half a century.

It wasn't quite that good, these past couple of weeks. But it did bring back the memories. If it weren't quite so antisocial, I could find myself praying for snow.

* The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.