Happy Christmas

One thing about Clovelly is it lends itself to Christmas, the two go together like Christmas pudding and clotted cream; throughout the closed wooded valley wisps of smoke from the coal lump chimneys gently odour the air with that cosy Victorian Christmas card appeal. Lights decorate the cottage fronts with trees winking from behind the nosey curtains, each house waiting for that magical arrival, each hotel buzzing and rocking with party excitement, a carol sung atmosphere hangs over the village.

We each make the effort to enjoy the season, taking our share of Chapel songs, meeting the faces we only see rarely once or twice a year, feasting on mince pies, sausage rolls and rich yule food washed away with strong dark tea; gathering the spirit of the time, making each day apart of the whole day, apart of the season.

Christmas has a habit of haunting you, it brings the childhood village into mind, glorious snow filled adventures into the parks and woodland with our father and a landrover full of fir trees and holly bagged bushes prickling knees all the bumpy way home, with a tree for the neighbours and a tree for the school and a tree for the pub and holly, berry red to be tied to all the boats.

Year follows year as last years dance leaves "that song," embedded in the box of "not to be," memories. Families grow older, children return as people, Clovelly settles down, comfortable with her valley gathered about her like a glorious grandmother; and as the last chorus of another Silent Night ebbs away, it's who we are with today that matters, the friends, family, wherever in the world they maybe; and ones we share the hot buttered fireside toast and opened tins of chocolates with; and with whom, like Clovelly herself, we shall wait for Christmas. To each and everyone of you Happy Christmas.