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A Christmas Card from Cornwall
It's the nadir of nature's year. The landscape's palette is more
Rembrant than Rousseau, rendering the fields and moors with a faded wash of
muted taupe, earthy ochres and lichen-grey; sombre and subdued tones portraying
pending winter as the land retracts into itself. The first real gale of winter
delivered 'weather' in it's rawest sense; unavoidable, physical and exciting...
the wind, which had been coiling itself up over the Western Approaches, let
loose with horizontal rain, slashing off the back of a southerly and inciting
the sea into a wild, white roller coaster. Off shore, a solitary coaster, just
visible through the veil of rain, struggled for shelter.
The seasonal rituals are soon to
begin as the winter solstice approaches- the darkest day on
which the sun starts to regain energy that will climax at its midsummer
zenith. Christmas will soon be here and the lights are on in the village
generating a luminous sparkle into the opaque night, a glittering relief
from the winter-blackness of empty second homes. The village twinkles
into life with an illuminated cross, a Christmas pudding, bells, and
because it's a fishing village, the outline of a trawler radiates from
the lifeboat house wall, add to this an anchor, a couple of dancing
dolphins and a loop of lights stretching round the curve of the beach,
reflecting kaleidoscopic fractals of moving colour in the lacy edges
of the surf.
I'm not religious and
come down on the side of the theory that the early Christians hi-jacked
the Romans' Saturnalia celebrations; they ate, drank and were merry,
with their version of Santa, the Saturnalia princeps, giving out presents
including candles, all of which sounds familiar and has no connection
to mangers, Mary and the magi. I also avoid self-analysis, but I do admit
to an affection for Christmas bordering on the metaphysical. I have been
fortunate to have my family around and to wish and be wished peace and
goodwill is a lovely sentiment. As for our family, times move on and
instead of our home being the destination of the annual pilgrimage, our
boys are men now with little ones of their own and are continuing our
traditions in their own places with the food holding centre stage. The
first call of the morning will be to wish us, ' Happy Christmas', followed
by, "Mum, I've got Nigella and Delia spread over the kitchen table
and their timings are different, what would you do?" . While the
other one may ask, ' How would you cook a goose? Would it taste better
like Raymond's with chestnuts or like Gary's with juniper and apple?"
The lights in Mousehole started
over forty years ago and since every village has switched on to brightening
up our winters. For those reading this who aren't living in Cornwall
- Cornwall's not just for summer holidays - it's for the year round,
and it's not too late to book into a cosy cottage, cuddle up around an
open fire or blow away the city cobwebs, singing along to carols that
will never sound better than those sang at a quayside service. So stuff
the turkey in the car, along with the dog and kids, and head west for
a memorable Cornish Christmas.
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