THIS is about a man who I had expected to be in a towering rage. If I were in his shoes, I would be incandescent. But Philip Preston turned out to be one of the calmest, coolest, most laid-back fellows I have ever met.

Philip, you see, is a taxi driver. He has been hacking cabs around Skipton and district for a remarkable 27 years.

If I had been doing that for just the past three years, I would no doubt be in the loony bin.

The problem, to explain, is holes in the road. And the traffic jams they cause. It is my misfortune to spend a lot of time travelling up Broughton Road, both on business and pleasure, and that for the past three years has been an almost constant nightmare.

I first met Philip when he picked up my wife and I, heavily laden with shopping, in Otley Street and the obvious route home was into Swadford Street, right past Bizzie Lizzies, and onto Gargrave Road.

Trouble was, Swadford Street, the High Street and virtually every other street in town was gridlocked by the tailback from the hell-holes of Broughton Road.

We were in a hurry and I was fuming. Philip was ice-cool and found a way that took us a pretty tour round the houses - with views of the castle and other tourist hotspots - and we were home in five minutes.

So when we met again to do this piece, he sat with his orange juice by the big windows of Herriot's Hotel whilst, outside, Broughton Road was once again in chaos as they had dug another hole under the railway bridge.

This hole was, as usual, unattended. It was, at a rough count, at least the sixth hole to be dug in Disaster Row - as some people now call it - in the past three years and many of them have remained dug for months on end.

The owners of Herriot's are furious. So are the managers of Morrisons and virtually every other business in town.

So I pointed to the jam building up outside the station and asked Philip: "How do you put up with it? I only use the road a couple of times a day. You must spend half your working life stuck out there?"

He smiled, sipped his juice, shrugged and said softly: "I take it as it comes. If I can find a way round the jams, I do. If not, I sit there and watch the world go by.

"What's the point of getting upset? It's bad for your health, you can't do anything about it - and there's no way you will get there any quicker. In more than a quarter of a century driving round this time, I've had to learn a bit of patience."

Of a saint, I thought. Because Philip, coming up for 50 this year, lives in Earby, and in any normal day, Disaster Row would be on his way home after a hard day behind the wheel - the final twist of the knife.

He was born in Gargrave, the son of a well known horseman and point-to-point jockey Jimmy Preston. After Gargrave primary and secondary school in Barnoldswick, he went into the retail food industry.

He worked first in a shop many Skiptonians will remember with fondness, Lions Stores in what is now the Tourist Information Centre, and then as an assistant manager at Hillards, which later sold out to Tesco.

This was the Seventies, supermarkets chains were swallowing each other like hungry piranhas (rather like today, in fact!) and the country was in deep recession.

After a stint with another small supermarket in Keighley, which went bust, Philip found himself doing a variety of jobs, including pumping petrol. A taxi, and self-employment, seemed a good idea.

"In those days, there wouldn't be more than 10 taxis in the town," he says. "Now there are well over 100. To the older generation, taxis were a luxury item, only used on very special occasions. They were expensive, too, by modern standards. But there were compensations.

"There was very little traffic compared with today. So journeys were much quicker and you could do more of them in a day, which made it a nice little job.

"And this was before the bypass opened. Today, the younger generation don't walk anywhere so there is plenty of work - but a lot of competition and many more road works. Why do you think that is?"

He asked this mildly, matter-of-factly, as though it was not a subject which had a direct bearing on his daily life.

My answer is only partly printable in a family newspaper but, in summary, I have no idea except for the fact that the public utilities seem to hold the people who pay their wages - in other words us - in total and utter contempt.

What about violence? I asked. Haven't two Skipton taxi drivers been attacked and robbed only a few weeks ago?

He smiled again: "I once had a regular customer in Carleton who, after a night out on the town, would always challenge me to go into a field and fight him for the fare. I never did. I always got paid and he always apologised.

"I wouldn't like to drive a cab in a big city but I have never had any serious bother in Skipton. I think it depends on the way you handle people. If they're drunk and you lose your rag, you're asking for trouble.

"Treat them gently and with respect, and they tend to get apologetic. I suppose after all these years I've developed a knack for it..."

Strangely enough, Philip Preston had a calming effect on me too. Outside, the traffic was still immobilised by a still un-manned hole, and drivers frowned and glared, yet I went home feeling good.

I walked, of course!