White Christmas





My sister tells me that this is my second White Christmas but I cannot recall the first time, so here I am in Plymouth with my daughter, son-in-law and their two small children in a truly white Christmas. The winter of 2010 brings with it much snow in the UK, as it does for most of Europe. It has lingered, landinh as fluffy snowflakes and setting in a hard crust over the frozen land. Pavements have become undulating ice ramp, their icy surfaces compacted and shaped by the tramp of many feet. A walk down the road is interesting, to say the least, indeed quite treacherous where the sun's weak winter rays have not penetrated. A slope or hill requires careful negotiation and the casulty departments of hospitals are filled with fall victims.  Smaller roads and lanes are impassable for the average family car. Rubbish piles up in unemptied bins or stacked on top; rubbish trucks have been unable to collect for over a week now. Piles of bags have appeared around the odd street rubbish bins, as the aftermath of Christmas celebrations bank up in homes.

On the brighter side, the snow brings a beauty all of its own. Forget the cold, ignore the biting wind, all around the land is bathed in a white blanket. Trees become ice sculptures. Bushes stand like icecream cones - vanilla flavoured. Intrepid robins hop about in search of  morsels to eat. The nearby allotments sport a few drooping frozen plants but, for the most part, lie fallow, a blanket of crosspatch . It is time to take a sled out and takes one's chance down slippery banks and once grassy slopes, slide away on down the park, missing trees more by good luck than good steeruing, espectially for those of us with rusty or no sledding skills. 

Christmas Day began early, as any Christmas does with little ones. Santa came to Bickham Park Road, not Father Christmas, for my grandchildren are Queenslanders. It was noted that he had eaten the mince pie left for him but Esther could not quite make out why he had left oatcake crumbs, not the pastry crumbs of a mince pie. A little hitch smoothed over by the observation that perhaps he had been eating someone else's oatcakes as he came down the chimney, which anyway looks remarkably narrow for someone with the corpulent body of Santa. A small present was opened before breakfast and the bulk afterwards. At our small family gathering each present was savoured by its recipient, one at a time. The goose was stuck, all five kilos of it, upside in the oven to begin with, carefully pricked a number of times on its breast to release the fat as it cooked. And release the fat it did. For those who have cooked a goose, they will know. Forewarned is to be fore-armed and several drainings of the fat took place during its time in the oven.

Christmas Eve had seen the first of our intercontinental family communications. The youngest grandchild appeared on the Skype screen infinitely bigger than I had seen her when I left Australia. What a difference three weeks makes in the life of a small thing. She is a real baby now, no longer a new born, eyes wide open mesmerised by the brightness of the screen. She will be two months old by the time I return. More Skyping on Christmas morning of Mike's family and phone calls to and from everyone else, both here and in Oz.

While goose spat its way through three hours of roasting, we took a brief walk around the park. Despite a few whinges from little people about being cold, the family photo was taken in the snow. Despite the temperature, it was a beautiful sunny day. Moreover, there were a few other brave souls out in the fresh air, mostly exercising their dogs, some complete with festive decorations, both canines and humans.

It was home to a beautifully cooked goose and all the trimmings, crackers galore with their little surprises, Frenchy bubbly served in tumblers in the absence of champagne glasses - it was a true Christmas feast. The goose was cooked to perfection, a tribute to the cooks, for whom this was the first time this had been attempted. It was delicious, a flavour a sort of cross between duck and the traditional turkey and beautifully tender. The hot Christmas pudding was delayed until mid afternoon, all members of the family somewhat replete after the main course. By now, of course, night had descended and Ness and I took the littles for a turn around the block to see Christmas lights, of which externally there turned out to be only one bush twinkling with blue lights actually outside. Slipsliding up and down the pavements, little gloved hands firmly clutched, it was lovely seeing inside house interiors taking a peek at individual living rooms, Christmas trees laden with decorations, baubles and tinsel beside cosy firesides, families gathered together to celebrate the festive season.

Another Christmas has now passed. I have loved them all but this White Christmas will truly be a memorable one.

Winter wonderland

Around Tickhill, Yorkshire

At last the time comes to leave for England and Christmas once again in winter. For most of my life Christmas was in warm climates - India, Africa, then New Zealand (sort of warm) and currently and no doubt for the rest of my life in Australia. However, it is the Christmases in the UK that I remember with much fondness. Visiting grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. Gathering around a warm fire in the evening, friends calling in the dark evenings, stomping the winter detritus from their boots and shedding coats at the door. Hot Christmas dinner with roast turkey (stuffed with both chestnut and sage and onion stuffing) with all the trimmings; plum pudding brought in crowned with flaming brandy and served with brandy butter. Hot mince pies, roasted chestnusts purchased from street vendors, Carol singers at the door and more Carols at a service on Christmas Day. All those iconic things so often portrayed in books and cards, they were part of my childhood Christmas . I love my life downunder but the Christmases spent in England are lodged deep in my heart and it is with great anticipation that I set forth for the English winter.
    'A white Christmas - how wonderful!' Friends say.
    'Oh yea...as if? Only ever had one white Christmas....in Austria  whilst skiing. In any case, Devon's one of the warmest counties in the UK.'
   I think back to 1963, snowed in for a month in country Gloucestershire, but that started on Boxing Day. However, the long range forecast promises snow in December in 2010 and, sure enough, before I leave Oz, snow dumps on parts of the UK big time. Gatwick closes and Heathrow sounds dubious. Qantas assures me that flights are going in so I endure the long air trek to the other side of the world, lengthened by several hours at Singapore, one of which was spent seated in cramped aircraft seats waiting for air clearance over Afghanistan. What tangled webs the peoples of this world have woven!
   Will I or won't I get to cousins in Tickhill (near Doncaster) in snow-struck Yorkshire? Yes, the snow ploughs actually get out to the village two days before I set off north and my darling cousins test the roads. Interesting meeting someone coming the other way in the village. Sticking to the ruts of other tyres is vital and venturing from these means a helpless sideways slide, hopefully not into a ditch or stream or  parked car. It is, however, a true winter wonderland and cousin Sue assures me I missed the worst of it. They have lost all their gutters, snapped off by the weight of the snow. Just getting down to  the road on foot had been an adventure for them - still was, as far as I was concerned. Landed unceremoniously on my bum on one walk. Much chinwagging, many glasses of wine and liqueurs and a wonderful musical in Sheffield later ('Me and My Girl' at the Crucible theatre) I return to London.
    My sister-in-law and good friend is my host in this great capital as always. Her terraced house in an inner north London suburb has seen the comings and goings of me and most members of our family. A gracious host with welcoming smile to greet the travellers. I have tramped through many galleries with Margaret, taken in many plays, walked many walks and shared many meals. We looked forward to a family Christmas in Plymouth this year. Well, as I write this, that looks unlikely. That winter wonderland is causing havoc with movement around the UK.
    After London, I go south to Rye, that wonderfully quaint town with cobbled streets and buildings that have seen many historic periods come and go. Built and added to over centuries, the walled centre of Rye has withstood the vagueries of time. The black beams against the white walls of Elizabethan buildings seldom line up and rooms and especially corridors have interesting undulations. One bedroom in my sister's house (the original town bakery and heritage listed) had a seven inch difference in floor height from one side of the room to the other. Apparently the previous owners had had blocks under the feet of the bed to ensure that the occupants slept flat. The actual structure of the house is protected so renovations made for interesting times.
    After a wonderful festive get together with all members of that branch of the family, I was on my way to Verwood, near Bournemouth for yet another reunion, this one a total surprise. A friend from my earlier cruise to Antarctic brightly said, 'Come and stay when you next go to the UK.' Never say that to me - I might just take you up! It was wonderful to see her cheerful face at the station but I had absolutely no idea of what lay ahead later in the afternoon. Passing around the back of a bus on the way back to the car after doing some leisurely shopping, we literally bumped into two other ladies from the trip, all arranged by Rachel. Wow! Apparently, my face was priceless apparentlyu! More chinwagging, good food, wine and company exploring the area and going over old times followed and then I was on my way to Plymouth.

The biggest hugs greeted my at the station, two little people I hadn't seen for five months, my lovely grandchildren, and, of course, their equally lovely parents. I have left my other three offspring in Australia with their respective families and friends. We had our Oz 'Christmas' brunch back in November. I now look forward to Christmas No. 3, for I  had Christmas No. 2 in Rye. Family is so precious at this time of the year. The joyous faces of the children opening presents surrounded by copious layers of Christmas wrapping, as well as just getting together to share a meal and greetings, is special.
    The night of my arrival the winter wonderland struck again. The backyard had a couple of inches of snow next morning, enough for Esther and Patrick to make a tiny snowman. More has since fallen, forcing cancellation of plans for a weekend trip to the Forest of Dean and Gloucestershire. A wise move for it was too icy even to get the car up the street for a day. It remained in its parked spot for two days more. Even with slushy thaw today destinations are restricted to main roads. For two days Shanks Pony or main road buses have been our mode of transport. It was with great trepidation that Ness and I set out this morning for the nearest part of Dartmoor. Tavistock was as far as we got and the only bit of moor that we stepped  foot on was near the main road  in between. Still, Tavistock was very picturesque in its blanket of snow and what we saw of Dartmoor was beatiful, white as far as the eye could see. As you see, photography has been a delight and I sit here in the warmth and look forward to a white Christmas after all. And, even better, a re-read two days later, Margaret will join us for Christmas after all - by train.

From Plymouth Hoe