Christmas Day.

I wake early to a pellucid lavender dawn. The snow never came in the end; it must have veered off to another valley. Instead, there is a thick hoar frost, glittering gently in the light. Stanley the Dog comes and curls himself into a tight little ball under my right elbow. I think fairly serious thoughts about the gravy.

When the entire extended and immediate family announced, one by one, that they were driving off to all points south and west, I had some covert abandonment issues. In seventeen years here, there has never been a Christmas where everyone has gone to in-laws or grandchildren at the same time. Usually, it is staggered. Usually, we are at least twelve round the table.

This year, we are three.

It turns out this is a sort of dream number.

There is no panicked rush or hurry. No huge bird has to go into the oven at 6am since we are having a civilised turkey crown. I may eat my breakfast at leisure and wander down to do the horses. The duchess is in her most Christmassy mood. She takes the carrots that Father Christmas brought her with politely restrained glee, and is so filled with goodwill to all men that she even allows her little Paint friend to share her pile of hay. Lately, she has been so bossy that Autumn the Filly is banished to eat a solitary pile of her own, but not today.

I smash the thick inch of ice on the water trough with one well-aimed crash of my boot and then make up the feeds. I stand with my dear red mare as she eats, looking out over the silver landscape, as Stanley the Dog capers about, sniffing the air for possible pheasants. There is a deep peace, broken only by the occasional caw of the rooks and the slow munch of equine eating. I feel as happy as it is possible to feel.

And then it is on to make the lunch. The Mother is up and dressed in Christmas finery, defying a bout of bad health. The lovely Stepfather is as elegant as a 1960s fashion plate and has set the table with the best silver. There are winter roses and the sun streams in through the wide windows.

I manage only to swear at the high-tech oven twice, and although there is the traditional turkey panic at twenty past one, all comes right in the end. The bread sauce is perfumed with cloves, the stuffing rich with sage, the Brussels sprouts sautéed in butter, the gravy takes half a bottle of sauvignon blanc and a quarter bottle of Madeira. I make peace with the fact that the potatoes are not as crispy as I wanted, and wave goodbye to any perfectionist tendencies.

Both brothers ring, one from Shropshire and one from Bali, where he lives. On the internet, which is a very touching place on Christmas day, positively humming with festivity, old friends and cousins and kind strangers send happy greetings. The good claret is decanted, and the 1967 port.

We eat, speechless with greed. It is really, really good. I say this, blatantly. ‘Even though I cooked it,’ I cry, all out of false modesty. I am exhausted with triumph. Even if there are only three of us, we still have the full Christmas lunch, with all the trimmings.

The Queen appears, reassuring and calm. I love the Queen at 3pm. It is the bedrock of a dear old Blighty Christmas. She looks contented and hopeful. I think that she will be wondering as much as I am what will win the King George tomorrow.

I open some more enchanting presents from friends and relations. The best present of all is Edward Whitaker’s collection of photographs of AP McCoy. I am such a racing geek that a whole book of the Champ is my dream item. Most days, when in doubt, I ask myself: what would AP do? Now I have his flinty look of determination and grit with me always.

I give the Stepfather his traditional Christmas hamper, which I compose over many months, drawing on all his favourite things to eat. I give my mother a soft blanket the colour of earth, and a ridiculous blown-up picture of the red mare. My mum is not very mobile and can’t get to the field, so now she can see the duchess every day, up on the wall.

In the gloaming, I go and check on the horses. The gleaming good mood still persists, and they are happy and still as the evening falls.

And then Stan and I go for the annual Christmas walk. Normally we would do this with the whole family, but today it is just the two of us. Stanley races about, showing off his athletic skills. I look at the trees, with love. A slender crescent moon has risen over the hill, and is lying on her back in the translucent violet sky. It was mere chance that brought me to this place, and I am suddenly shaken by that stroke of luck. I think, strongly and suddenly of my father, and raise a metaphorical glass to him.

And that, my darlings, was my Christmas day. It was really, really lovely. I hope that wherever you are, and whoever you are with, your hearts are full.

 

Today’s pictures:

Breakfast:

The lovely frost:

The Mother:

The lunch:

The elegant Stepfather:

The cook:

Happy Christmas. xx

In which I come back to love and trees. And get a bit Christmassy.

The snow is coming in over the hills. I can smell it in the air. The red mare has to forgo her spa day doing mud packs as the rug goes back on and the extra hay goes out. Stanley the Dog is feeling very festive, hunting rats and selecting absolutely enormous sticks. My mother and I have laid plans and made lists. The lovely Stepfather goes out to get Marsala for the gravy.

In the village, I see people I know and stop to talk. ‘The snow is coming,’ we say gravely. I buy two final presents and indulge myself in a little Christmas posy of red roses and eucalyptus. The ladies in the flower shop are rushed off their feet, but their blazing smiles never falter. In the general store, I have an excellent conversation about the King George with my racing friend. As do all racing fans at this time of year, we secretly quite wish Christmas Day would get on with it so that we can open the real Christmas cracker, which is the card at Kempton on Boxing Day. It is packed with shining stars, and our eyes light with anticipation at the very thought.

People are kissing old friends and wishing them happy Christmas. ‘Happy Christmas, happy Christmas,’ I say to every single person I see, even complete strangers. Without knowing it, I suddenly got Christmassy. Perhaps because I gave myself permission not to force the jollity, it came flying in of its own accord, like the snow.

I’ve been quite disorganised, and the godchildren are going to have to have New Year presents instead of Christmas ones, and I never got around to anything like sending cards, but it does not matter. The house looks pretty and smells gently of greenery, the animals are happy, the presents are wrapped, my HorseBack work is done, and I’ve even had a little ante-post wager on my dear Silviniaco Conti. I’m hopeful, as long as the ground does not get too quick. I have a fridge full of treat food, and lots of watercress for health and strength. I need the iron. My little community is filled with a generous spirit.

Yesterday, my friend the Political Operative rang up and we spent a whole hour having a joyful post-mortem on the party I went south for. (One of the Dear Readers asked what I was writing thank you letters for; it was that.) We both agreed that the greatest delight was seeing so many of the old compadres looking so happy and well. The party was given by one of our university friends, so it was filled with people we have known and loved for thirty years. All of us have had our downs and ups, our moments of glad grace and our broken hearts. We have got to the age when many of us have had lost one or both of our parents. There has been triumph, but there has been tragedy too. Life has taken us out behind the bike shed on occasion. But there was a real sense of coming through at that fond gathering, as if, despite being a bit bashed round the edges, we were still holding our heads high. We were buggering on.

‘And,’ said the Political Operative, laughing, ‘as long as you and I can still dance together, everything will be all right.’ I smiled into the telephone. ‘I can still throw some shapes, baby,’ I said, in my most ironical voice.

He and I first danced together in a garden in Chelsea in the 1980s. And here we are, looking sternly at fifty, dancing still. There is something streamingly lovely in that.

I wrote a post last week for HorseBack about how, for some people, this is not a season of jingle bells and joy, but a time of sorrow and loneliness. When it seems that the whole world is celebrating and shopping and cooking and decking the halls, a heavy heart can be a devastating and isolating thing. It can be a time when memories are not ones of friendship and love, but of pain and loss.

I am keenly aware of how lucky I am, in this beautiful, peaceful place, to have so many loves. I count that blessing every single day, but perhaps today most of all.

I hope, my dear Dear Readers, that you have love. It’s the only damn thing that counts.

And trees, too, of course. Love and trees.

That really is all she wrote.

 

Today’s pictures:

I did take some lovely shots of the red mare, dreaming under the Wellingtonias, but I left the camera in the feed shed so here are pictures from the archive instead:

Permission not to be Christmassy.

There are several reasons that I do not go away in December and ruthlessly refuse all invitations. One is that I worry about the weather, and have horrid visions of being stuck in the south whilst Red the Mare and Stanley the Dog pine for their human. One of the roads home was in fact closed on my return, but the other one was clear, and I managed to scoot over the hills without too much trouble, despite the so-called weather bomb which had exploded in my absence.

The other reason is that I love the Christmas season, and like to have plenty of time to prepare for it. As the Dear Readers already know, organisation is not my strong suit, so I need prairies of time otherwise I get panicky and cross.

This time, I broke my December rule and went south and had a very sweet and happy time indeed. But when I got back from my antic trip, I crashed straight into the pincer jaws of anti-climax and a hideous cold. I should be able to deal with anti-climax by now. I’ve even lately written a little essay on the subject. However, my besetting weakness is an inability to bridge the gap between paper and life. I can write something wise and sensible, I can even think quite coherent and philosophical thoughts, but I often can’t translate them to real life action. So I found myself crashing like a little girl who has been to a party and eaten too much cake and done too much tap-dancing and then spends the next three days wailing inconsolably. The cold, which has laid low half the village, was an absolute brute and is still chugging away. It left me weak and cross and unable to think clearly, as my head was filled with gunk.

Instead of doing my usual Yuletide dance round the butcher and the flower shop and the two general stores where all kinds of delightful Christmassy objects can be found, I sullenly bought an armful of eucalyptus and had done with it. In an absurd fit of throwing out the poor little baby with the stone cold bathwater, I’m so cross about not getting ready in time that I’m refusing even to listen to Christmas carols on the radio. I’m furiously catching up on old episodes of the Rachel Maddow Show instead. (I must admit that the politics geek in me regards this as a tremendous festive treat. Crazy Republicans! Confused Democrats! Sarah Palin goin’ rogue! Hillary vs Jeb for 2016? The majestic sight of Elizabeth Warren in full flight! Hog heaven.)

The family has gone away, so this year it is just me and the Mother and the Stepfather. This quite enchants me in some ways, as I can really concentrate on cooking them the most delicious Christmas lunch ever. But it means that the usual pre-Christmas atmosphere is muted. The compound is silent and empty, with the felled giant that is the old horse chestnut lying on the ground like a gloomy metaphor.

I started to get very doleful about not being in my usual celebratory mood. I began to castigate myself for mucking up my schedule and giving in to germs (germs??? How dare the fuckers march in and ruin the day???) when I suddenly realised something quite profound.

This is:

It does not matter.

None of it matters. Some Christmasses are very Christmassy, and some aren’t. It’s not written somewhere, in stone, with turgid Sermon on the Mount flourishes. I’ve had a very long year, writing two books and desperately trying to get my career back on track after a fairly spectacular derailment, and doing the HorseBack work as well. I love that work, but it consumes a lot of time and thought and emotion. I’m quite tired in spirit. Maybe it’s not a bad thing to have a slightly non-Christmassy Christmas. I’ll just cook the lovely lunch and watch Silviniaco Conti in the King George on Boxing Day and eat some stollen and find Stanley an extra big stick and give the mare some special carrots. It doesn’t always have to be a huge festival with dancing girls and a brass section.

I’m giving myself permission not to feel Christmassy this year. Not at all in a bah humbug way, but in an it’s all right to be ordinary way. It’s a vast relief. And I must admit, the eucalyptus does look very pretty.

 

Today’s pictures:

Actually, now I look at the pictures, I think – not too dusty:

The felled tree:

Stan the Man does not care about any of it, because HE HAS A STICK. Also, Santa Baby has left him an early delivery of some very, very special treats, hand-made by people who have clearly never had a common thought or mean:

And the red mare is happy as twenty-seven grigs, because the weather has turned mild and she can mooch around with her rug off and get perfectly filthy. I used to have angst when there were weeks I could not work her, for whatever reason. A lot of horses really want a job. You often hear people getting perfectly furious at the idea of some old chaser just being ‘thrown in a muddy field’. It turns out that my dear old duchess, useless at racing, useless at polo, adores nothing more than chilling out in her field, the muddier the better. She will kindly consent to work when I ask her, but her default delight is doing absolutely bugger all. You can see the contentment coming off her like smoke in this picture, as she has a nice graze out in the set-aside:

Sometimes it really is quite hard to believe that she goes straight back to the Byerley Turk.

A little Christmas story.

Christmas is a much more complicated and nuanced time than tradition and popular culture allow. It is much more than ho ho ho and deck the halls. It is the conformists’ festival, and I don’t mean that in a sneery way. (I am, in a most un-nuanced manner, filled with good cheer.) What I mean is: it is a difficult time to be other.

In the days when I thought myself madly other, I used to buck it. I once spent it quite alone, once with a hardly known American man on the Keralan coast (no funny business, just two travellers). I once went to a restaurant on Christmas day, in protest against all that feminine slaving over a scalding hob.

But little by little, I gave in. I decided it was partly the thing that was presented: a time for family and food and goodwill and the fine claret.

It has always held a little batsqueak of doubt though, in the back of my mind. I’m prone to get grumpy if forced into jollity. This year, I was up against a deadline, and the weather was mild. There were no Christmassy frosts, and hardly a sight of a holly berry, and even the little robin who visits my back door looked faintly unconvinced. I was disorganised and running late. Then the gales came and the power went out and it all seemed to be going to hell in a handcart. The festive spirit came late, and reluctantly.

But the funny thing was, it turned out to be one of the best. The family was delightful, right down to the smallest great-nephew. The lunch did come off, even though I slightly overcooked the turkey and undercooked the potatoes. (The bread sauce was perfect, and my step-sister made the most delicious stuffing ever.) The presents were in the great tradition of William Morris: both beautiful and useful, chosen with amazing amounts of thought. I got exactly what I wanted – a biography of Henry Cecil by Brough Scott, Jamie Reid’s book about the doping scandal of the 1960s, a lovely blanket for my bed, a scented candle. A lot of generosity and care went into everything I received, so that I felt bathed in the light of affection. 

I even got a good life lesson, from my very own red professor.

High expectations are the enemy of happiness, and they never obtain more than at Christmas. I am usually alive to their perils, but this morning I did fall into the elephant trap. The one thing I wanted to do, once I had put in the turkey and started the gravy, was to have a special Christmas ride on my lovely mare. The forecast was good, the gales had torn away to the north, all was set fair. I dreamed of it in my mind. We would mooch out, cowboy style, and look at the view and think of the simple things of this season, the ones you can’t buy with money.

Red, however, had other ideas. She had clearly been up all night in the terrible wind, guarding her little paint filly from the storms, and she was knackered. This way, I said, getting on and pointing her out towards the hills. You have to be joking, she said. She actually turned her head to look back at me in the saddle and rolled her eyes at me. She stood stock still, so I had to flap at her as if she were a riding school pony.

Eventually, with great reluctance, she set off, walking at a snail’s protest pace.

After a bit, she perked up, but she was not finished with her orneriness. We did eventually roll into a canter, but then she did something she has not done for ages, something I think is a memory of her polo days. Half way up the long meadow, at breezing pace, she jinked. It’s a complicated manoeuvre – a sort of swerve, plunge, and half-turn, with a little lemon twist, and a most duchessy toss of the head. It’s quite hard to sit; if you are not careful, you can go shooting out the side door in a most undignified manner.

Bugger, I thought. So much for the perfect harmony between human and equine. So much for my high-born thoroughbred turning into an old cow pony.

I took her back and did some transitions and turns and figures of eight. I told her, kindly but firmly, that I was in charge, and this would not do.

Then we tried the canter again, and this time it was straight and true and I could let out the reins and trust her to run kindly for me.

As we headed back to the paddock, I laughed and laughed and laughed. It was not my dream Christmas ride, but it was better than that, because she had made me work a bit. She had told me I can’t take her for granted, no matter that it is a national holiday. Once she had made her point, she reverted to dopey old donkey, and I got off and walked the last stretch home, with her following behind me like a faithful Labrador.

But here is the extraordinary thing about expectations. I had high ones of that morning ride, but none at all about tea-time, when I left the Christmas lunch table to go and put Red’s rug on and give her some hay and settle her for the night. I was happy and heedless by this stage, touched by all the family goodness.

As I was putting out the hay, I was suddenly whacked by the loss of my dad. It is our second Christmas without him. The irony is that he didn’t like Christmas much, and generally went through the motions, barrelling along on a wave of alcohol. I think he, like all true racing people, slightly regretted the fact it was the one day of the year when there are no fleet horses to watch. For true racing people, Boxing Day is the great festival, as all the stars come out for the King George.

But there, in that muddy field, I missed him so much that I was undone, and, in that happy day, what I call the Railway Children tears came.

I am very strict about not asking animals to heal human troubles. I don’t think it is their job. It is my task to make Red’s life calm and easy, not the other way round. But the thing came so fast, out of a clear blue sky, that I had no time to head it off at the pass. The mare lifted her head, and stood very, very still. Then she hooked her neck over my shoulder, and laid her cheek against mine, and stayed there, unmoving, until the storm had passed.

I don’t know what it was. I don’t want to fall into the pit of sentiment. But it felt like her great present to me, the one that I was not expecting at all.

Once I had finished, and gathered myself, and smiled a twisted smile at my own absurdity, she went back at once to her hay, as if to say: don’t think this is going to turn into some Disney moment. There will be no string section, she said, with a swish of her tail. That made me laugh a lot too. She made me laugh in the morning, and laugh in the evening, for two very different reasons.

And out there in the prairies of the internet, there was some of the simplicity of Christmas too, as strangers and distant relatives and old friends far away sent each other little messages of love. It is not a simple day. For some people, it is fraught with difficulty and loss. But sometimes, sometimes, the spirit of the season does burn bright, in a wonderfully straightforward and fine fashion. Today, I was one of the lucky ones.

I hope that you too, between the turkey and the panic, the early morning start and the not enough sleep, the high expectations and the muddled reality, got what you wanted. Even a glimpse of it can be enough.

 

Today’s pictures:

This morning, getting ready to ride. Do you see that warning look in her eye?:

You have to forgive the scruffiness. There was a bird in the oven and no time for proper grooming.

At this stage, she really just wanted to hang out with her muddy friend:

Once we finally got rolling, there it was – the finest view in the world, that which comes between a good horse’s ears:

But she’s still giving me a bit of a LOOK:

The snowy hills:

The lovely woods:

The astounding light:

The devastation from the storms, as the top of an old oak tree lies snapped off, as if some giant hand tore it from its moorings:

More crazy Scottish light:

The hill:

And, having made her point, the red mare follows me home without so much as a hand on the bridle:

Autumn the Filly welcomes us back:

Butter would not melt in somebody’s mouth:

The field:

Ornery? MOI?:

My favourite mountain, yesterday, as the storms were blowing in:

Sweet family:

Not the best pictures I ever took, but they give you some idea of the goodness of the day.

And my noble Stan the Man, who did not filch the turkey, and mostly restrained his lurcher instincts, and fulfilled his Christmas remit of making my mum smile and smile: