'Come; see the oxen kneel'

O magnum mysterium et admirabile sacramentum,
ut animalia viderent Dominum natum,
jacentem in præsepio.
Beata virgo, cujus viscera meruerunt
portare Dominum Christum, Alleluia!

O great mystery and wondrous sacrament,
that animals should see the newborn Lord
lying in their manger.
Blessed is the Virgin whose womb was worthy
to bear the Lord Jesus Christ. Alleluia!

The Oxen

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.
"Now they are all on their knees,"
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen,
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few would weave
In these years! Yet, I feel,
If someone said on Christmas Eve,
"Come; see the oxen kneel,"

In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
Our childhood used to know,”
I should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping it might be so

Thomas Hardy

Happy Christmas!

Winter in the garden

I think that the garden is just as pretty in its frosted winter clothing as it is in the summer!

At Christmas I no more desire a rose
Than wish a snow in May’s new-fangled mirth;

But like of each thing that in season grows.

- William Shakespeare ('Love's Labour's Lost')

Countdown to Christmas

Haven't blogged much recently - been preoccupied with other things. So I've taken the easy way out and posted some photos!

Christmas at the Garden Centre:

Pots with Todd Crag in the background

Frosted plants

The entry to 'Winter Wonderland'

Poinsettias

Decorations

Here is John Betjeman's take on Christmas preparations:

And how, in fact, do we prepare

The great day that waits us there -

For the twenty-fifth day of December,
The birth of Christ? For some it means

An interchange of hunting scenes

On coloured cards, And I remember

Last year I sent out twenty yards,

Laid end to end, of Christmas cards

To people that I scarcely know -

They'd sent a card to me, and so

I had to send one back. Oh dear!

Is this a form of Christmas cheer?

Or is it, which is less surprising,

My pride gone in for advertising?

The only cards that really count

Are that extremely small amount

From real friends who keep in touch

And are not rich but love us much

Some ways indeed are very odd

By which we hail the birth of God.

We raise the price of things in shops,

We give plain boxes fancy tops

And lines which traders cannot sell

Thus parcell'd go extremely well

We dole out bribes we call a present

To those to whom we must be pleasant

For business reasons. Our defence is

These bribes are charged against expenses

And bring relief in Income Tax

Enough of these unworthy cracks!

'The time draws near the birth of Christ'.

A present that cannot be priced

Given two thousand years ago

Yet if God had not given so

He still would be a distant stranger

And not the Baby in the manger.

from 'Advent 1955'

Post-Christmas Slump, or 'The cure for this ill'

This is the time of year when I unaccountably slide downwards into a mildly negative mood. Perhaps it is because the (excessive) purposefulness of Christmas preparations has gone, and there is nothing yet to replace it.

This morning was overcast, dull, windy, drizzly and utterly gloomy weather-wise. Could I stand going into town - again? During this nothing-will-please-me-today-no-matter-what mood, the several usually pleasant routes into town all seemed uninviting.

What was needed was Action!

‘The cure for this ill
is not to sit still
Or frowst with a book by the fire;
But to take a large hoe
And a shovel also
And dig till you gently perspire’

(not Kipling’s best - but nevertheless wise advice)

In this weather, digging was not an option, so we decided on a vigorous walk. We drove the 9 miles to Windermere, and parked in the village of Bowness. This is perhaps more a small town than a village and in the Summer it can be as crowded as Blackpool. Nevertheless, its situation reminds me faintly of those little towns on the Swiss lakes - an English spin on Vevey.

Today there were only a few locals and hardy visitors around. We had our coffee and a slice of the best lemon meringue pie in Cumbria at ‘Bowness Kitchen’ then did a circuit of Helm Road and Biskey Howe Road, a loop which takes you up to the Biskey Howe viewpoint - a huge reward for minimal effort. (although it doesn’t feel like that for the first quarter of a mile - it’s a bit of a stagger whichever end of the loop you start from)

A pile of twigs in a garden: Biskey Howe Road. I like the range of winter colours:

And above, a mysterious gate leads - where?

The path up to the viewpoint

The rocky outcrop looks like a mountain range from this angle



The viewpoint summit, with a misty Windermere, looking north towards Ambleside:

The summit looking south, towards Newby Bridge:

We rejoin the road...

... down to the village

And back to Bowness and human company again. And although it was raining by now - that typical Lake District rain which is blown in all directions at once, and an umbrella is a liability - our mood was lifted, the endorphins were released, and the ill most definitely cured!

Twelfth Night

There is some disagreement as to whether Twelfth Night is the 5th January - the eve of Twelfth Day, or on the 6th January - the evening of the Twelfth Day. Either way it has come and gone.

So, all the Christmas decorations are down; the tree dismantled, the wreath taken from the front door, the cards read once more then placed into the recylcing box. Why is it such a mournful task?
I'm relieved in one way - they all seem so irrelevant once the Day itself is over. But is it sad because perhaps Christmas once again has not quite lived up to expectations? Am I trying in vain to recapture the magic I felt as a child?

Dad took this photo of my sister and I sitting in front of the fire in our basket chairs c.1952, and accidentally superimposed another picture of us singing carols. But the result was rather nice.

17th Century Twelfth Night merriment.
Now Christmas is past,
Twelfth Night is the last
To the Old Year adieu,
Great joy to the new

'On Christmas Day in the Morning'

The weather this Christmas has been unseasonably mild. We still had a few brave roses nodding doubtfully, and little sprigs of campanula poscharskyana still clinging to life in the front tubs.

I lit the fire on Christmas Day, not because we needed it, but just because Christmas without a fire seems all wrong. So we sat round feeling uncomfortably warm!


Francis Kilvert, a young curate lodging at Ashbrook House, Clyro, during the 19th century, was not so lucky.

Rev. Francis Kilvert

This is his diary entry for Christmas Day 1870:


'Sunday, Christmas Day

As I lay awake praying in the early morning I thought I heard a sound of distant bells. It was an intense frost.

I sat down in my bath upon a sheet of thick ice which broke in the middle into large pieces whilst sharp points and jagged edges stuck all round the sides of the tub like chevaux de frise, [spiked defensive structures] not particularly comforting to the naked thighs and loins, for the keen ice cut like broken glass. The ice water stung and scorched like fire. I had to collect the floating pieces of ice and pile them on a chair before I could use the sponge in my hands for it was a mass of ice.

The morning was most brilliant. Walked to the Sunday School with Gibbins and the road sparkled with millions of rainbows, the seven colours gleaming in every glittering point of hoar frost. The Church was very cold in spite of two roaring stove fires.'

Read more about Francis Kilvert and his Diary here: http://www.smr.herefordshire.gov.uk/guest_authors/Francis%20Kilvert