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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.
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