SNOWY MIDNIGHTPILGRIMAGE
YOURMANYRECIPESFORa PERFECTCHRISTMAS
ENTRIES to our annual Veronica Frater Memorial Competition brought the odd tear to the judges eyes. Some were caused by a writers nostalgia for perfect Christmases past, others by laughing at the situations people endure, then with hindsight enjoy.
There is no doubt that readers feel following a familiar ritual with close family is the way to enjoy a perfect Christmas. Not one entrant felt that a perfect Christmas would be one spent away from it all in exotic climes – which was rather heartwarming given these cynical times.
It was hard to pick just three stories from the many excellent entries but we hope you enjoy reading the winning articles as much as we did. First prize and £300 goes to Clare Vaughan of Nailsworth, Glos, – she made us feel part of her early Christmas.
Joint runners up – Chris Buckle, Sunk Island, West Yorks and Hilary Walker, Lypiatt, Glos, each win £50. Quite different – they both hold the reader to the very last, telling sentence.
Our Farmlife team – Tessa, Tim, Jean and Maggie – sends warm wishes to all our readers. We hope this Christmas fulfils all your expectations and that you find time read our three winners accounts of A Perfect Christmas.
WINNER
FESTIVELABOURANDLAMBING
WHAT are you doing for Christmas? Tenth of December; message on my answer phone "Come to dinner tomorrow night, were celebrating Christmas early".
Yet another bizarre summons from my barmy sheep farming friends, exhausted by all the diversifications theyre now forced to pursue. Christmas dinner on the 11th… why? Ah… I flick my calendar back to August "Help Alice sponge commercial ewes". So, I could be wearing my lambing assistants hat over the festive season.
Following morning I leave a message on their answer phone "perfect, going to Portugal for Christmas, see you tonight," and trust they appreciate my little joke.
After a magnificent feast – which Alice could produce even if shed just swum through a lake of crocodiles an hour earlier – I unwrap my early Christmas present. Scarlet thermal socks and a perfectly fitting (boys age 9) pair of waterproof trousers confirm my suspicion.
"We know you like to…"
I finish their sentence "yes I know, keep my hand in".
I do actually. Having lost a hill farm to the bank and a husband to divorce I live in a farm cottage with my retired sheep- dog, cat and two guinea pigs. My two children, now in their 20s, visit regularly to ensure I dont deteriorate to a house rabbit. Then they encourage my snippet of eccentricity by telling people Im "pig farming". They do omit the size of the unit and the prefix "guinea".
This year we have a caravan in the sheep shed. An old battered heated haven of coffee, mince pies and whiskey for the night shift. An incongruous very pink lamp glows cosily in the window. Once ensconced its a pretty torturous ordeal to shoe horn us out.
Lambs arrive to plan. I feed, wash bottles, mark sheep, Sam and Alice do the serious stuff. I build the first pet lamb a pen, which Sam says looks like a huge nest, so the lamb is christened Eagle.
At 5am on Christmas morning we leave the house with a turkey in the Aga, 10 unconscious "young people", written instructions and little hope.
By eleven thirty weve lambed 15 ewes, fed and bedded up.
"Well turn the singles out," says Alice.
Lambs of this size on a hill farm would be on the mountain so I take her literally.
"No," she screams, "turn them out to the larger shed!"
"Oh, extended hols," I say; we christen the shed Lanzarote. The doubles are turned out to Tenerife. Alice and I create these silly scenarios when exhaustion sets in. Sam finds them extremely annoying, we think theyre hilarious. When were reduced to hysteria he tells us to clear off, hell finish up.
"Here come the Diddy Men" says my daughter. It must be the hats. We are revolting, caked yellow with lamb poo and iodine and purple with Terramycin, topped with tall misshapen woolly hats solid with hay seeds. We jig into the hall, knowing the youngsters appreciate our annual Diddy Men song and dance routine. Almost before we finish they insist we remove outer garments and sit down. The table is laid, napkins, flowers, candles and crackers, astonishing. Sam is also rendered speechless.
We do nothing towards our sumptuous Christmas dinner. The youngsters serve us with a banter that would inspire a script writer for Fawlty Towers. Leading us, still stunned, to the sofa for coffee and cheese, our sons announce theyll check the sheep. More shock horror, wonderful children, beautifully reared, squiffy giggles all round.
As weve worked since dawn perfect peace reigns in the sheep shed.
The young men stroll back; "nothing happening, boring actually, what do you find to do up there?"
Clare Vaughan
RUNNER-UP
TREEFAIRYSseen all
HI there! Its me – Esmerelda, the Christmas tree fairy. Cant wait to get back on that tree. Hope her downstairs doesnt chuck me out. Shes threatened to, no end of times. Thank goodness the children wont let her. They say that Christmas wouldnt be Christmas without their old fairy, bless em. She says Im tatty. Cheek of the woman. Her red frocks seen better days, I know. Im surprised it still fits with the amount of chocolate she puts away.
Now that the children are gone, Im skating on thin ice. Dont blame them for leaving, her cooking is disastrous – the smell of burnt mince-pies gets right up my nose. And she tried again the other day, sneaked up the stairs, opened my cupboard and lifted me out of my box. So I took a deep breath, turned on oodles of charm, tried to appear super-intelligent, and blow me, it worked. She smiled that silly smile of hers, for ages – and then put me back in my box. Quite a scary moment, I can tell you. Will never fathom that woman. Must be the quiet thats sending her crackers. When the brood were at home it used to be like a raving disco on the landing. The noise was deafening; doors banging, footsteps pounding and no end of scrapping for the bathroom. Youd think shed be grateful now that she doesnt have to queue.
After all Ive been stuck on their tree since "you-know-who" bought the boys a train set. Super set; super boys. Poor little blighters couldnt get a look in what with their dad interfering. Felt like shouting down and telling him to clear off and crack some nuts. She was the same when the girls came along, forever dressing up dolls and rocking prams.
Theyve had some times. Up at three on a Christmas morning; her stuffing the turkey at five. Made a right mess. Did she care? Did she heck. Didnt seem to notice the paper and boxes and the stuffing that she dropped all over the floor. She just laughed, lit the fire and they all giggled and danced. They were still in pyjamas and nighties when their poor old hunk of a dad came in from feeding the pigs, bless him.
Oh, and the state of her Christmas dinners. Dizzys not the word. She just sits there, smiling that silly smile of hers, completely oblivious to the debacle going on.
I ask you, who else doesnt have enough teaspoons, knives and glasses? Who else forgets where theyve put the nutcrackers and bottle-opener? Not many, Ill bet. Her sprouts go soggy; as for her bread sauce… The sinks a tip with piles of burnt pans and mucky plates. And then, blow me, she leaves it all and snuggles up on the settee with super-stud and the children and watches telly all afternoon.
The sights Ive seen; almost brings tears to my eyes thinking about them. As a fairy, I know that shes useless and cant cook or sew and this cupboards in a right state, but its home.
And I know that this Christmas, her only wish will be for the children to bounce through the door, give her a big hug, and sit down at her table. Because old Esmerelda knows, children are all that a mother needs to make a perfect Christmas.
Chris Buckle
RUNNER-UP
SNOWY MIDNIGHTPILGRIMAGE
CARLO shakes his head impatiently, sending the tiny bells on his harness tinkling into the night.
My 70-year-old father sits opposite me, fending off the bitter cold with a thick burgundy pony rug. His large, fake-fur hat lends him an air of bygone Russian aristocracy.
It is just past 11 oclock on Christmas Eve. Candle flames flicker in the lamps on the flanks of our governess cart. A silver winter moon and sprinkled stars illuminate the driveway ahead.
I shake the reins gently on Carlos back. With another toss of his mane he trots off smartly past our old stone house, whose front door boasts a golden wreath bathed in the soft porch light. Through the front window I glimpse our Christmas tree. Its coloured bulbs flash on and off. Hours earlier they mesmerised my six-year-old son before he reluctantly retired to bed, much coaxed by his parents.
We turn into a deserted country lane. Tinkling and trotting are the only sounds until a cheerful peal of bells heralds the approaching village. The pony briskly passes cottages showing off their bright Christmas displays.
On foot, groups of warmly clad churchgoers chatter with merry voices, showering us with hearty greetings of "Happy Christmas!"
The main doors of the church are flung welcomingly wide. Brilliant light from within radiates out to the life-size nativity scene outside. There, in a makeshift barn, Mary and Joseph kneel by their newborn son in his straw filled manger. People are thronging into church while I halt the Welsh Mountain pony by the crib. I descend from the cart followed by the father who gives me Carlos rug.
"Im sorry to give up that blanket!" he says. "Its wonderfully warm."
I laugh and put it over the ponys back, then clip the headcollar over his bridle. The vicar has given us permission to tie the pony up on a post next to Jesus, because "It will add a bit of life".
O Come all Ye Faithful echoes from the heart of the church. Exchanging smiles, Father and I link arms and walk inside, where our voices join the rising swell.
Light snow is falling when we leave, an hour later, filled with the joyful message of Christmas. Carlo is happily munching the infants bed and departing members of the congregation laugh at the tug of war between me and the naughty pony. Finally I manage to remove his halter. He stamps an angry hoof, jingling his bells. We settle in the cart and he steps out into the night.
Moonlight falls on each crystalline snowflake; the beauty is breathtaking.
Oblivious, Carlo trots happily towards the warmth of home.
My son hears the ponys bells in his sleep and imagines they announce the arrival of Santas sleigh. My mother and husband are in the kitchen, warming mince pies and stirring mulled wine.
The pony is now rugged up in his stable, with extra hay as thanks for his nocturnal services. The cart is put away before we tread through crisp snow to the kitchen.
Tomorrow will bring the excitement of present-opening, smells of roast turkey and steaming Christmas pudding, the pop of champagne corks and burst of Christmas crackers.
But for me – savouring warm cheer tonight with my family, and replete with the moonlit magic of the drive – this has already been the perfect Christmas.
For next Noel, Father will not sit with Carlo and me, but be watching over us and smiling amongst the stars that guide our midnight pilgrimage.
Hilary Walker