Christmas Memories in The English Countryside

Casting my mind back to early childhood as a small boy at Christmas time. The wonderment of escaping the city of Manchester for the majestic landscapes of the lake district in England - where my grandparents lived from my Mother’s side. The idea of Father Christmas or Santa Claus, was the first conspiracy for which all the adults around me engaged with, to deceive my innocence so that I could believe in something magical for just a while longer. The smell of log fires, chimney smoke, baking bread and pastries was always wafting through the local village, giving a warm aroma of comfort and togetherness.

My child mind slowly put together the pieces of the puzzle, such as the plate of cookies and the glass of milk left out for Santa on Christmas eve, only to have been consumed by morning. My brother and I would write down the gifts we wanted on a Christmas letter addressed Dear Santa, then we would ask our Uncle to hold it above the fireplace until it floated up the chimney, which was how it would reach Santa of course! When we didn’t receive all the gifts from our Christmas wish list, we were told that Santa was busy this year delivering presents all over the world, and that we should be grateful for what we had - to have a roof over our heads, to have food, and to be surrounded by family. We were grateful. We were content. We were loved.

The family even had my Grandpa put on the Santa outfit one year, by which time they must have sensed my belief waning. Something was off…Santa was supposed to be a huge bloke with a great big fat belly! My Grandpa was short and stocky. I think I was seven years old when I figured it out - immediately telling my little brother of five years old the hard truth. He bawled tears of rage for hours. My family were furious with me. Alas, they managed to persuade my brother that Father Christmas was very much real, keeping the game alive for a couple more short years.

We enjoyed a few so called White Christmas events in the lake district, although thicker snow usually fell in late January or February. The whole family would venture out into the nearby farmers fields, with my brother and I seeking out the steepest, most unforgiving hills to go sledging. Whenever we found a ridiculous hill with what looked like a forty-five degree angle of descent, my Mother would shake her head disapprovingly and say it might be unsafe, or asked how we would stop ourselves from hitting the fence at the bottom of the hill. Then at that exact moment, we would see our Grandpa whizzing past head-first on his wooden toboggin from the 1950s, which he would dust off from the attic each year without fail. It was an absolute death-trap. This is a very similar version:

The sledge took no prisoners. My mother broke her finger one year when four of us piled onto the sledge, after we hit a branch sticking out of the ground and went tumbling down the hill, all mangled limbs, bruises, and bumps.

Another year my Grandpa hit a rock buried in the snow, sending him flying head first into the three-feet-deep powdery landing, his little legs flailing about as if trying to communicate a rescue attempt request to us. Once we had stopped laughing, we hurried over to pull him out, then my Mother scolded him for setting a bad example to my brother and I. We disagreed, we thought our Grandpa was hilarious and realised he was still a big kid at heart whenever it snowed.

In the morning, my grandparents’ poodle - Ben - would let out his high pitched whiny bark, as he always heard the engine of the local butcher’s van before any of us could see him coming up the driveway. Grandpa would be the most excited; I never saw him move so fast as when he ventured outside into the cold, crisp morning air to greet the butcher. It was a huge order of several packs of thick-smoked-bacon rashers, and gammon steaks from the local farm, along with dozens of free range eggs. My Uncle would chastise Grandpa for having the ‘unhealthy’ habit of eating a cooked breakfast every single day without fail - dutifully cooked up by my loving Grandma in their quaint little kitchen. When my Aunt tried to give my Grandpa some helpings of salad, he would snap at her:

“Why would I want to eat rabbit food? Nonsense, give me bacon and eggs please.”

Choosing a Christmas tree from the local farm was a careful science, which involved tape measures and much scrutiny from all the family. Wonky branches would not cut it. Too tall? We couldn’t have the tree bending as it touched the ceiling back at the house. Had the pine needles started to fall off yet? Choose another one. My brother and I loved coming along to choose the Christmas tree.

Once my brother and I had reached double digits in age, we accompanied the family to midnight mass at the local church in the village. There was something peaceful and harmonious to be found in most of the village’s inhabitants coming together at midnight on Christmas eve at the church. Our stoic Grandpa’s singing voice would boom above the other villagers, as we collectively went through the classic hymns such as Away in a Manger and Hark! The Herald Angels sing.

Those Christmas meals at my Grandparents’ house are some of the best childhood memories I have. Everything sourced from their local farmer contacts. Endless ladles of gravy, as my brother and I liked to drown the turkey in the stuff. New potatoes, boiled potatoes, crispy baked potatoes, huge slabs of meat, cranberry sauce, vegetables, and on and on it went. My Grandma made the most delicious desserts, spoiling us for choice with apple pie, chocolate cake, and of course the Christmas pudding.

My Grandpa retained lifelong friendships with farmers in France who he befriended during World War II. The farmers had vineyards, producing an apple brandy called Calvados. It was very strong at sixty percent proof.

My Grandpa would pour the Calvados over the Christmas pudding, setting it alight with matches, much to our delight. As the pudding cooled, it was served alongside generous helpings of thick double cream, with the heated dried fruit flavours melting in the mouth.

Once everyone had come out of their subsequent food comas, sitting around the log fireplace in the living room, we would all go for a family walk around the village. Passing three different farms, constantly saying hello to everyone who we knew on a first name basis, slipping on patches of black ice, carefully maneuvering around the babbling brook below the only pub in the village, and finally warming ourselves beside another fireplace in the local boozer.

Aerial view of a snow covered lake district.

Seagulls on a frozen lake.

Merry Christmas.

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