Yesterday was a terrible, awful, wonderful day.
I woke as usual at 5 a.m. Outside, it was dark and snowing. Padding into the bathroom, I turned on the tap to brush my teeth. Nothing. I blinked. What? I fiddled with the handle. Still nothing. Incredulous, I ran down the hall into the kitchen and turned on that tap. Nothing. Not a blinking drop. Panting with fright, I ran through the sunroom to the guest bedroom/bath -- same thing. Every pipe in the cottage had frozen!
I looked around in disbelief. The same nightmare that had happened here exactly one year ago was unfolding again. No, NO! Not possible!
Barefooted and still in pajamas, I ran from pantry toilet to laundry room to both bathrooms, to the kitchen -- back and forth, back and forth, incredulous, turning taps on and off. Flashing by a mirror a quarter-mile later I noticed a pale, desperate face -- STOP! With a huge effort I gathered my scattered wits and tried to think. Let's see. Unprecedented freeze warnings had been posted throughout England and Scotland, so I'd left the heat on all night, though fuel was costly and rationed. Check the outdoor thermometer: minus 6 Celsius!
Remember! Now the toilets had just one free flush.
Check the attic! I lowered the ladder and climbed, expecting the snap-pop of splitting pipes to begin any second, then realized I was barefooted. I dashed back to the master bathroom, dressed in 30 seconds flat, then zipped up to the attic. Huh. It was snug in here. I stepped carefully between the beams, feeling the pipes. They were cool, but not icy. So, why ...
Next -- run through the foot-deep snow to shut off the mains. Then open the five sink taps, just a bit, to relieve pressure later. Light the fire to keep the house warm. Ring the builder at 7:30. Pray he answers.
Those two hours felt like two years. When firewood snapped and popped, I cringed.
Exactly at 7:30 I rang. Terry was delighted to hear from me; it'd been nine months since he'd finished rebuilding Bryn Garth. I explained what had happened. "Leave it to me. Hang on. Wait for my call." He rang off. Ten minutes later, he'd contacted two of his plumbers. They were on their way.
Trembling, I made oatmeal, and managed to keep it down.
Shortly, three bundled men arrived and sorted out the problem. Twenty feet of ancient pipe on the patio had frozen solid -- right up to where it entered the cottage. Furthermore, its insulation was inadequate. A carpenter was called. All day in finger-numbing cold the plumbers cut away the old pipe, fitted a modern one, applied heating tape around its length, then thick pipe insulation, which fitted snugly over both. The carpenter built a long box to enclose every inch, and then stuffed its interior with more insulation. Everyone worked quickly, skipping tea breaks, knowing the sunlight would vanish at 4:15 p.m. Finally, at 4:30, in deep shadow, they finished. Now the water would remain liquid, wouldn't it?
For extra insurance, they laid 10 inches of fresh insulation over the attic pipes and left, full of tea and cookies, and my hugs.
I sat in the kitchen, still stunned. What a narrow escape! Cottage gremlins radiated disgust, and thumped off in a huff. It would have been such fun to see the ceilings fall in ...
I'd forgotten to eat; a quick can of cold tuna, and to bed. I slept like the dead, woke at 5 a.m., crept to the tap -- nervously turned it on -- it gushed. The temperature outside was minus 8 C.
My grin lit up the darkness.
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are closed for the season. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information. Find more of her columns online at record-eagle.com/deeblair.
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