GOATHLAND station, high up on the moors, was utterly blanketed by snow. It lay two feet deep along the platforms, and almost hid the famous bridge. The railway lines themselves were invisible.

We tramped along the platform, looking for signs of life.

There was the sound of a window opening, and then a voice. “You’ve spoilt the view!” it said. “All those footprints along the platform! It was perfectly smooth before!”

The voice belonged to Beverley Dalglish, who works in the station shop. Her husband Alastair is the signalman. The pair have been virtually marooned for days in their home overlooking the station.

“Although this is one of the only houses in the village that cars can’t get out from,” Beverley admitted. “We can walk out okay.”

The couple have solid fuel heating, but even so, keeping warm has been largely a case of spending lots of time in bed – that and liberal dashes of whisky in the tea and coffee. Supplies are holding out so far – and as long as the buses keep getting through to the village, they can always get out to get more, Beverley said.

There is a real sense that the village is pulling together, too. “The postie has been down, and the milkman has been down, checking everything is okay. They are very, very good. This is a proper village: people are helping each other out.” The real worry is power cuts. It hasn’t happened yet.

“But that is what would worry us. Most people have supplies laid in.”

As the blizzard conditions continued, a small team from our sister paper, The Press – motoring editor Steve Nelson, chief feature writer Stephen Lewis, photographer Anthony Chappel-Ross and work experience reporter Emily Fairbairn – had decided to head for the North York Moors on a mission to bring emergency supplies to isolated communities.

Getting a 4x4 car that could tackle the icy roads was the first problem. All available vehicles had already been commandeered by the emergency services.

Then Turnbulls Mazda in York offered a Mazda CX-7 for the day, and we were in business.

We stocked up with emergency supplies – crumpets, loaves of bread, milk and chocolate biscuits – and set off.

The roads in York itself were treacherous. The A64, however, was clear and so was the A169 to Pickering. On either side, rolling white hills entirely blanketed in snow stretched away, punctuated by rows of fencing like black stitch marks.

Beyond Pickering and up into the Moors the roads were still, amazingly, clear. The Hole of Horcum was spectacular – a hollow, gleaming expanse of pristine white, with not a soul in sight. By now, almost 1.30pm, snow was falling again. But the road continued clear all the way to Fylingdales.

There we found out why. A snow plough was parked beside the road.

“We’ve been out since 5.30am,” said one of the two men in the cabin. “We’ve been up and down the A169 four or five times now.”

The narrow road into Goathland was a different matter: passable, but only just. We were glad of our car’s 4x4 capability.

As we came down into the village itself, we found a red post van parked beside the road.

Postman David Pottas was trudging from house to house up to his knees in snow, delivering letters on foot. He was choosing not to go down some of the worst roads. “I’d rather walk for ten or 15 minutes than get stuck,” he said.

David had managed to reach most of the homes on his patch, though, he insisted – apart from Beck Hole. “I haven’t gone down there. I’d only get stuck.”

Beck Hole – and more particularly the Birch Hall Inn, one of the most remote pubs in North Yorkshire – was, however, our own destination.

The road out of Goathland was entirely covered in snow. We inched along, down a couple of steep slopes, and eventually abandoned the car in an impromptu car park beside the road just above the final, steep drop into the village. Two other cars were already parked there.

Beck Hole itself, in its small hollow, was entirely shrouded by snow: the houses, the trees, the road. There wasn’t a soul in sight.

We trudged through a thick bank of snow to the door of the village pub, and pushed it open.

Inside, was a fug of warmth. Villagers Colin and Judy Pyrah and Pauline and John Hunt were tucking into a hearty pub meal, washed down with generous pints of beer.

Landlady Glenys Crampton was looking on through the serving hatch.

Our emergency supplies were greeted with a cry of delight – and a good-natured squabble about who would get the crumpets – followed by a pledge to share them out around the village. So what was it like being cut off, we asked?

Quite nice actually, came the reply.

“Normally it’s a bit of a tourist honeypot, so it is quite nice to have the place to ourselves”, said Colin.

The village is really pulling together to ride out the weather, all agreed. Supplies aren’t the problem. “Most householders were prepared,” Colin said.

“And one of the village houses has a very fat pig and three cows, if the worst comes to the worst!”

Best of all, the pub has a good supply of beer in – very important, since there haven’t been any deliveries since before Christmas. “We couldn’t ask lorries to come here,” Glenys said.

But there is no TV at all – the satellite dishes the villagers rely on have all iced over – and most worryingly of all, the propane gas supplies many rely on to heat their homes are running low.

Families like the Pyrahs are turning their central heating low, and burning wood to keep warm. And what if the gas runs out altogether? Would they consider abandoning the house?

“Never!” said Judy. “We couldn’t leave the cat!”

“They can come to our house!” said Pauline Hunt. “Come down to the pub!” chipped in Glenys.

Colin and Judy had just walked up to Goathland to collect the papers and the post for the whole village. And whenever anyone is thinking of going out to get in supplies from Sleights near Whitby – using one of the cars parked at the top of the hill outside the village – they ring around the other nine homes first, to find out what everyone else needs.

“There’s no point everybody going!” Colin said.

The main worry, just as for Beverley Dalglish in Goathland, is power cuts.

That apart, the villagers are quite happy in their isolation – apart from feeling a bit miffed at the media coverage the snow down south is getting.

“We’ve had it for three weeks!” Colin said. “They are the most enormous wimps down there!”