For me as for everyone else, Christmas took a very different form this year. In fact, it was quite unique - the first time I've ever been my own on Christmas day - providing a little bit of insight into the lives of people much less fortunate than myself. Although obviously not as enjoyable as it usually is, it was fine. I maintained all the usual rituals, with a big Christmas tree joining the small ( and I have to confess rather straggly) garden-based one that goes up at the end of November for Cherry's birthday - one row of lights along the wall and the wreath on the door, to show willing. Each such gesture one in the eye for the pandemic. Sainsbury's even do a nice line in Christmas puds 'for one.' Inevitably there was a downside as well, of course. It wouldn't be Christmas without them. The blaspheming when one chain of lights on the tree suddenly makes a loud pop and goes out, completely upsetting the artful balance of the tree decorations. The last-minute Christmas card from that arrives from someone you've forgotten etc etc. Having to concede that they will have the moral high ground next year. But I suppose even those minor reverses reveal quite a lot of the reassuringly normal amidst the abnormal.
As a singleton with a bubble, I was entitled to a visit. Beth and Christopher came on Boxing Day for a couple of hours. They sat in the Annex and I sat outside - and we shouted at one another through an open door and ate our own sandwiches. Christopher took away a massive log I had procured for him from the local woodyard to use as an axe block for his spoon making efforts. I couldn't bring myself to wrap it. What with this and Beth's engaging in a virtual pottery class in their garage, I guess that the rest of us have a pretty good idea of what we'll be getting in the way of Christmas presents next year from this duo of Walthamstow artisans.
I also met Team Powell on New Year's eve in the New Forest, and was amazed at how crowded it was at Turf Hill. Dog-walkers and families galore. I've never seen the car park so packed I had to park along the entrance track. We got away from everyone and had a virtuously socially distant pic-nic lunch of our separate providing. A sometimes thick mist enveloped the scene in the most atmospheric way. One expected Count Dracula to emerge from the nearest copse at any moment. Once we had tired of breaking the ice on various puddles and ponds, we did the walk past the various humps concealing the remains of World War II buildings to Millersford Bottom. Barney took being socially distant to the extreme of disappearing into the mist and getting totally lost. His mother teetered on the edge of having the last melt-down of the year. So everyone had a lovely time and we were able to re-unite successfully before going out separate ways.
I took a bit if time off from my Newport commitments (which had the unfortunate consequence of bequeathing me a veritable torrent of e-mails awaiting me when I resumed normal business -like, as they say trying to take a drink from a fire hydrant). I had already decided that my special Christmas project would be to write an account of Cherry's last year, based on my diary entries, not least because this had always been a very special time for her. It made the season more of a shared experience. It sounds morbid and unnecessarily harrowing, but wasn't. Instead I found it therapeutic - not an exercise in closure more one of a degree of thankfulness. Especially, perhaps, when so many other people were having a really hard time.
I managed a couple of local walks over the season. On one I thought i would do a little bit of unfortunately very squelchy field walking just behind the house. The photo shows some of the products of my no doubt deluded industry. Nothing very remarkable, one large this bit of glazed pot that was possibly late mediaeval. The rest was 19th Century, including the section of clay pipe, - mostly thick, plain cottage ware. But I couldn't quite work out what it was doing here so far from any village houses. One piece in particular was thinner and of significantly better quality. Who would bring a willow-pattern saucer, or even its remains, out to the fields ? The standard explanation for distribution of bits of pottery in fields is that things got broken and the bits got mixed up in the straw that rural folk used to put down on the floors of their cottages. When this got too noisome they would scoop it all up and dump it in the fields - but this wasn't the case in the 19th Century. So this was A little mystery to think about on my rounds.
The last time I was in Devizes I invested in a window bird feeder for my study. Although they all prefer the more familiar types that hang from a tree, it has been the source of much interest. The clear plastic means you can see them literally on the other side of the window pane. I hadn't quite realised how fast birds are -they flash in and out, sometimes staying to use their beaks, into the fatball, like pneumatic drills, noisily banging away. Blue Tits mainly, but Great Tits, a Robin and even a rather bemused looking Chaffinch. There's obviously a queuing system of some sort. One Blue Tit in the feeder thumping away, and below him on the window sill, four of five more, their little heads just visible, squeaking their impatience. They don't seem to mind me moving around either. A distraction perhaps, but all good innocent fun.
So altogether my days get filled, and indeed, more often than not, overfilled, but mostly with things I like doing anyway so I can't complain.
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