MOST of the Christmas cards that we receive are adorned with pictures featuring snow. The grimmest winter in the memory of Craven folk began with a snowstorm. The first flakes fell on Sunday, February 2, 1947, and mercifully no one locally had knowledge of the hard conditions that lay ahead or they would have capitulated. Snow-cutters cleared the last of the big drifts at the end of March. It would be June before the cores of old drifts in shady places vanished from sight.

At the time of the Big Snow I was involved in my national service at a naval air station in Ireland, where winter was moderate. An account of the effect of the Forty Seven Winter would eventually be related to me by Edith Carr who, with her family, had experienced it on Malham Moor.

It formed a chapter on a book about her experiences on Malham Moor.

A north-easterly wind brought snow that stuck and eventually even squeaked. Snow that had been blown off the fields blocked the roads.

They created drifts up to 15ft high which changed the natural contours.

Sheep were overblown. Brown hares had their normal food supply cut off.

Farmfolk were isolated.

The gangs of roadmen who cleared a stretch of road one day found it had been infilled when they returned the following morning. At Nether Hesleden, in nearby Littondale, the farmer and his helpers excavated a tunnel though snow for over 20 yards in order to reach the big barn.

Towards dusk, on February 21, 1947, Edith, her family and Karl, the German prisoner of war who was lodging with them, became aware of the true nature of this terrible winter. Having experienced a bitterly cold day in which every room was a meeting place for cutting draughts, the Carr family huddled over the old range in the kitchen. Said Edith: "We were wearing layers of woollies and toasting our chilblains." To go outdoors was to enter a polar wilderness.

The children gazed on the world through peep-holes they made on the rime obscuring the windows. They also saw a few miserable sheep, almost completely covered with snow. "Not being able to dig down for grass they were bleating pitifully for hay....Eventually you might cross the landscape walking on the wall-tops." Edith and family survived for a time on brown hares cooked in various ways. The hares had come down from the fells in large numbers and foraged for food around the farm.

As the foodstock dwindled, so did the cattle-fodder in the barn. "The cows were 'bawling' all day. We could not feed them too much at a time.They were permanently hungry. Then there would be more frost or snow. All was engulfed."

Robert, the husband of Edith, donned his greatcoat and the extra warmth provided by scarf and cap. He then got on his horse and set off to get some food. He returned at dusk with a few potatoes and porridge oats. They were hanging from the horse's back.

A German helper was persuaded to take the horse down to Settle for food.

He was away for such a long time that Robert was alarmed. The horse returned without its rider. Robert went looking for the missing man and found him blundering about. He was assisted back to a warm farm kitchen.

Edith recalled: "Next day we could trace his wavering journey back to the farm by the bits and pieces of groceries he had dropped on the snow."

Happily, when there was a thaw in hand, the RAF dropped bales of hay for the starving stock. No one had ordered the hay. Edith had no idea where it came from or who paid for it. As far as she and Robert were concerned, it was manna from heaven. A visiting postman said: "They've gotten word through that you are just about on your beam-ends." He had heard on the radio that the RAF were organising a mercy-flight from Dishforth to the remote farms with food and fodder.

The postman had also heard on the radio that those affected should, if possible, make a big cross on the snow. So, in the morning, Edith and Robert made a large cross of "provin" sacks and old motor oil. It stood out clearly against the frozen snow. "We waited and listened, ready to put a match to the oil. It stood out clearly. At about half past two, we went out and we started this big fire. It threw out a lot of smoke."

"At about three o'clock we could hear droning aircraft coming. We got into the house to be out of the way of anything that was dropped. When I went in, our children were underneath the living room table. They had been scared at the sound of the planes.

"They flew round the house once or twice to make sure it was 'it' and got so low I could see the doors opening. First of all they dropped us big parcels of food. Robert went out and picked them up. Then they went away and came back a short while, flying over the front meadows, dropping bales of hay."

The Carr family remained in good health during the trying times. The raw winds that tried to cut through to the bone also put a ruddy complexion on everyone's faces.