Another thrilling morning on the North York Moors. Freezing temperatures, frost blanketing the valley, and snow still stubbornly clinging to the high ground. How enchanting. This is a view of Bilsdale from Hasty Bank.
For days now, the gritters have been tirelessly scattering salt as if the very fate of civilisation depends on it. It reminds me of when I trudged past a towering stockpile of rock salt every day on my way to work at the fabrication yards on the River Tees. Back then, I wondered if it was a bottomless supply and where all that salt ended up after being flung across the roads.
Of course, the supply is not infinite, and because the Government lives in fear of a salt shortage, the UK hoards it like treasure—250 million tonnes stashed away in warehouses as part of the “National Emergency Salt Reserve.”
As for where the salt goes, I guess it dissolves, flows into rivers, and eventually the sea. The long-term effects? Who knows. But the burning question: where does it all come from? The answer is fascinating. The dirty-looking salt scattered on roads is actually the remains of an ancient sea. Around here, it is likely Yorkshire salt from the Boulby mine.
Boulby, one of only two rock salt mines in England, originally mined potash but now focuses on polyhalite. It tunnels through the Zechstein sea, a prehistoric seabed buried over a kilometre deep beneath the North Sea. Layers of irony there. The mine itself is an oven-like labyrinth, where temperatures soar to over 40°C.
The other source of road grit is Winsford in Cheshire, which, unlike Boulby, is not buried under the North Sea but under fields and meadows. Here lies the remains of another ancient sea, turned into a vast slab of halite a couple of hundred million years ago. Winsford, the larger producer, supplies most of London’s road salt.
While some salt is extracted via brine pumping, road salt is mined the hard way—drilled, ground, and hauled from the salt-face. Winsford, opened in 1844, boasts colossal tunnels tall enough to accommodate double-decker buses. Apparently, the air tastes salty, and the translucent pink walls give the place a quaint charm.
In some abandoned caverns, they now store priceless artworks and archives because nothing says “secure” like a salt mine.
Both mines grind the rock salt into specific sizes—10mm or 6mm—because, naturally, de-icing roads is an exact science. The size difference determining how quickly they dissolve. Who knew gritting involved such precision? Truly, an art form for the ages.
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