Whenever the weather turns in the run up to Christmas I am always reminded of the most amazing site I witnessed ten years ago, when I saw my first true Hoar Frost. My local park was transformed into a frosty wonderland. I can remember wandering around very early in the morning, with very cold fingers and toes and my camera, clicking away, overawed by it all. I wasn't alone. I lost count of the number of photographers with all their specialist equipment, lining up, checking lighting and exposures, whilst I just clicked away hoping for the best. Thank goodness for digital photography! So here are a couple of photos I would like to share.
In keeping with this blog's festive theme I have more wintery images below to help set the scene for my short festive story to follow.
I hold my hands up now and admit to a rather sentimental, rose tinted view of a Christmas Day in More Twitchen, (my imaginary Shropshire Village set sometime round the early 1900s or roughly thereabouts) but what the heck, this year at least, we all deserve to wallow in a little bit of sentimentality or quite possibly you might think it's a load of saccharine tosh. Whatever your thoughts it's an image of Christmas we can blame the Victorians for and I hope you can lose yourself in its warm glow, if just for a short while.
The snow fell slowly at first. Those initial light flakes gently caressing the manicured hedges, front walls and windowsills of the houses of More Twitchen. Whiteness fluttered down through the blackness of this cold Christmas morning as its increasing density becomes a blanket of featherlike down. Silent, beautiful and with just enough chill to ensure it will linger for a good while.
Henry Jones opens his front door as quietly as he can. He doesn’t want to wake his sleeping family. It’s early and pitch black and as he steps out onto the path easing the door to its latch, he feels the first gentle, cool caresses of snow on his face and he smiles as he thinks of his children’s reaction when they wake.
Henry Jones is assistant to Mr Gough the village baker and is familiar with this early Christmas morning start. For every Christmas for as long as Henry can remember, Mr Gough not only bakes his delicious bread and buns (famed throughout the county), he also bakes a free mince pie for every child in the village. So Henry, whose role it is to fill each small pie, will be busy, to ensure that this year’s sixteen lucky recipients receive their mouthwatering treat.
The sweet aroma of baking winds its way through the wintery flakes and all Henry has to do on this festive morning is follow its fragrant trail to the back of the bakery, where through the gaps in the old wooden door, a warm orange glow entices him in. Henry is grinning broadly as his snow-covered and slightly steaming body enters the warmth of the bakery.
You would think, as it is so early and not yet light, that no one else was up and busy on this exciting morn. You would be wrong. For not long after the door closes on the bakery, along the street a small yellow glow appears above the now snow-covered sill of the Misses Prim Haberdashery. Through the misted small windowpanes you can just make out the petite figures of the Misses Prim as they flutter and dance about their business. Which today is the production of lace brooches for the young girls of the village. Using a patchwork of delicate material remnants the Misses Prim deftly and expertly create wonderful pins to be worn by the eight lucky young recipients this year. Smiling and content they are oblivious to the increasing snow outside as their happy waltz continues.
On the other side of the road tucked in at the end of Woodcutters Shut, warm and content in his pine scented workshop, George Thomas is putting the finishing touches to one of the wooden toys he has carefully crafted from offcuts left over during the year. As the village carpenter it is his role every year to make a wooden toy for each of the young boys of More Twitchen. All twelve of them this season. Even the naughty ones! George smiles as he checks the binding on the handle of the wooden sword he is completing. He can’t help wondering if this is actually a sensible choice of present for a certain young Binkle with his fondness for practical jokes and the like.
As dawn begins to break on this muffled white and wintery scene, something bright red bobs through the clouds of snow at the far end of the street. Too big for a robin surely? Squinting through the swirling down, a stooping, grey figure appears attached beneath. A hessian sack thrown over his back and for a moment you could be forgiven for thinking …. Is it possible? But no, Shadrach Kolkata bent against the unfurling flakes is intent on his dawn role, delivering neat brown packages to those elderly and unfortunate to live alone. The passing of their loved ones dutifully respected in Church and carefully noted by Shadrach during the year. He wouldn’t want to miss anyone out, especially today and especially after the year he’s had (but that’s another story).
At the other end of the High Street, past the pond and the village pump, through the gate with the missing T and yes we have visited here before, the young Binkle’s have been busy these past few days. The fruits of their labour just visible stacked by the back door. The bright scarlet and green of holly and ivy prickling above their snowy blanket, tied together in unruly bundles all ready to be taken to decorate the village hall. Well its not really a proper hall, it’s the old tythe barn, but it sits just fine in its new role at the heart of the village. A commotion breaks out inside the Binkle’s home, lamps are lit and five excited and surprisingly clean faces peer out of the steamy back window. It would appear the young Brinkles are awake! The backdoor bursts open and out they all tumble, a jumble of night clothes. Shoeless and sockless in their haste. They don’t feel the cold or the wet of the ground as they dance and shriek and throw snow balls around. (I am pleased to announce Horace made an honest woman of Marigold some months ago now, has adopted all her children as his own and there have been a couple more additions to the chaotic brood!)
Meanwhile as a wintery light struggles to shine through the swirling whiteness, the ample proportions of Rev Puce, off to prepare the church for his Christmas Morning Service, can be seen and heard as he delicately crunches his way to the end of his garden. Disappearing momentarily through the gap in his privet there is a muffled 'phlumph' and a large puff of snow. Hat awry, spectacles hanging from one ear and covered in a snowy down, his ruddy face appears over the top of the ditch he has been unfortunate enough to tumble into. It is several seconds before Rev Puce regains his composure. Then glancing furtively around, he wouldn’t want an audience, he rights his hat and glasses, collects his belongings and with as much dignity as his office permits, clambers out of his predicament. Huffing, puffing and even more red in the face than usual, he arrives at All Saints with no further mishap, physically at least. Of course there is no one to advise him that his Christmas Sermon is still-lying at the bottom of the offending ditch. Poor Rev Puce the demands of the season do take their toll.
As the dark grey of dawn brightens slightly into the light grey of day the heaviness of the swirling snow becomes apparent for all to witness. Piled high on every surface, weighing down branches, covering roofs and settling on, as yet, unopened gates. A thick blanket lies on the unused roads and pavements. Adorning hedges like a pristine white tablecloth. More Twitchen has never looked more picturesque than it does at this moment. Through the still falling snow the yellow and orange flickering of freshly lit lamps dance along the High Street, as the villagers wake and ready themselves for church and the festivities of the day.
Front doors open, excited children launch themselves into the cold, running through the swirling gloom. Fathers appear behind them, armed with foliage, chairs and small tables, closely followed by Mothers and Grandma’s, baskets overflowing with delicious mouth watering offerings, protected beneath pristine white cloths. All make their way gingerly along the High Street, their muffled chattering and laughing lost amongst the shrieks and screams of their excited children. The pristine whiteness of the road now full of footprints and sledge runs, crisscrossing each other towards the barn.
The huge doors of the Tythe Barn unlocked by Mr Smate, The Postmaster and trusted keeper of the huge iron key, are now wide open and through the snow look like a huge gaping mouth, gobbling the villagers up as they hurry inside to decorate and prepare for the later festivities.
So whilst the parents arrange and ready the barn and the children run and play, Rev Puce lights his candles and the colourful warm glow through the stained glass windows beckons in all who pass by.
The Misses Prim wrapped and bundled in thick top coats, their precious gifts now neatly wrapped and secured in a neat woven bag, gingerly step out into the swirling snow, arms linked in support of each other. Turning they head towards the church, a fitting start to their day of celebration, they believe, before the village festivities commence in earnest and they permit themselves a drop or two of mead.
George Thomas, a large hessian sack slung over his back, emerges smiling from the Shut and wrapping a protective arm around his pregnant wife turns towards the barn to deposit his years work before joining the throng now heading into church.
Out of the newly prepared and brightly decorated barn, villagers emerge and round up their rosy cheeked offspring. Mr and Mrs Binkle collect up their brood, without counting, one can only hope they are all present, and all turn for church. The huge barn doors are pushed to and Mr Smate turns the huge iron key before sliding off along the path to join his wife and family waiting patiently for him.
Children’s laughter and adults muffled conversations fade into the swirling whiteness as they make their way along the church path through the open door and into the church's welcoming glow. The doors are closed and a white silence descends on the village. Footprints and sledge runs are quickly covered with yet another snowy blanket completing this picture postcard scene. The only evidence of human presence now is the lingering aroma of baking and mince pies and the distant sound of melodic voices singing the opening line of The Holly and the Ivy.
And so its here we will leave the village of More Twitchen, as we found it; silent, still and white, with a hint, just a hint, that something special is about to happen.
We would both like to wish everyone a Merry and Safe Christmas and a Healthy and Happy New Year.
Lovely tale