In the Bleak Mid Winter

At this time of the year being almost Christmas, my thoughts usually turn to the cosy old 17th century cottage I lived in with our two children, now very grown up and living in Australia, as indeed I do too. Many years were spent on my own after they departed for this country from England, preceding me by at least 10 years.
     The title of this short story is also my favourite Christmas carol, sung by the choir at Kings College, Cambridge, in England. There it is sung in low candle light, reflecting the soft warmth around the old walls of the chapel, its quietness and gentle rhythm encapsulating the essence and true spirit of the season. The carol is based on the words of the English poet Christina Rossetti, which rises melodically to the old rafters and there seeps into every soul who listens -
 
"In the bleak midwinter,
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow has fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago."
     There are also more verses of the carol.
     Winter and Christmas time, particularly in the late 70s and through the 80's, was every bit "frosty wind made moan". To me it was never bleak, the frost crisp and often sharp in the depths of the West Dorset countryside. Hills, lanes and hedgerows were heavily laden with dry, cold, powdery snow. It was so beautiful, particularly if the sun shone onto it, if even briefly. To me it was heavenly, bright, light and white as it drifted down gently, covering everything in its sight - it drifted this way and that, across the tops of flat hedgerows, onto bare boughs of trees, including our large bramley apple ones, over rooftops and all across far distant empty fields. At one time, it almost buried the downstairs diamond-shaped leadlight windows, reaching to the second floor.
      Waking in the morning on Christmas Day, everything was quiet and peaceful, the light in the bedroom eventually becoming bright with the whiteness outside. It appeared eerie at first, but you knew it had snowed during the night. Downstairs, before I later had the cottage enlarged and almost rebuilt around me, installing central heating, on the inside of the leadlight panes, ice had formed overnight - even with the Aga range on, purring away gently like a contented cat, 24 hours a day.
     Those days are still remembered and my biggest regret was that my children never benefited from the cosiness, comfort and utter bliss of central heating while they were growing up. No doubt their thoughts changed as they experienced the heat of Melbourne summers - with an occasional hot Christmas Day, which never really feels like Christmas, not like the ones in England. Those Christmases would be only a memory - when they sang carols at the end of a school year, involved in the school's Christmas play, or some other event.
     The "earth stood hard as iron" in those early winters and later, after a sharp frost had descended during the night, my best friend and I traipsed
over it twice a week, for stimulating conversation and exercise. The clods were frozen solid, our Wellington boots, (named after the Duke of Wellington), never sinking into rutted farm tracks, but walking on top of them instead. It was a strange sensation for me at first, but at least we didn't get plastered in mud. I rather preferred it, enjoying the fresh country air each time. 
     The earth seemed to stand still after a heavy snowfall. It prevented the large school bus winding around narrow country lanes, so the children had a day off school - as indeed they did if the toilets froze. We'd all congregate in the deeply sloping field opposite the cottage, some with blue fertilizer bags from a friend's farm filled with hay. The gouged out tractor tracks made a perfect Cresta run all the way down to the holly bush below, at the beginning of a privately owned woodland. The overnight heavy frost soon solidified across the surface and we gathered a very fast speed on our tummies, using our feet as rudders. My best friend engaged her daughter's pony into action and we gave the kids rides on a make-shift sled pulled behind him, a hay bale as a seat. This adorable little skewbald pony had perfect manners, never putting a foot wrong, probably enjoying the winter fun as much as the children. 
     Water was like stone in the farmyards - drinking troughs solid. Puddles from earlier rain iced over, the farmer's pipes for milking also solid as stone, making them curse and cuss.  
     In the warmth of the cottage, a turkey slowly cooked in the Aga range, closely watched from time to time in case the oil ran out at a crucial moment. It actually did once, much to my annoyance. Christmas Dinner was always important, the pudding warm and waiting to be consumed with home-made custard or cream - brandy butter later added after the children left for Australia.
     I'd sometimes invite my bachelor farmer friend to share it with me and later walking it off in the woodland below or across fields, frozen in time. Old films were maybe watched in the evening, with only the softness of Christmas tree lights twinkling around the cottage sitting room, accompanying them. The walk-in inglenook fireplace with its large oak beam framing it, engulfed a wood-burning stove, logs crackling away within, glowed warm and inviting. If it was Christmas Eve, we'd watch the choir from Kings College Cambridge sing the well known carols. I longed to hear 'In the Bleak Midwinter.' It brought tears to my eyes and gladness to my heart. I had a lot to be glad about.
     For me, the snow was always welcome, but not when I had to drive after a heavy fall. Our driveway was short and steep, making things difficult when it iced over. In the 70's and 80's I would ask the council politely for a little extra grit to be dumped nearby and they usually obliged, if I was lucky enough to catch them at the right moment.
     One Christmas in particular, the children and I were watching the film 'White Christmas' on a small television set perched on the window ledge next to the large wooden kitchen table, where we were eating our Christmas Dinner. Bing Crosby was singing 'White Christmas' as outside all was still and quiet. Huge shapes of fluffy snow fluttered down slowly as I rang my mother in Australia to tell her. Tears were rolling down my cheeks. The snowy scene outside couldn't have looked prettier or more charming. The children were anxious to go outside enjoying make new tracks in the snow around the garden. Quite honestly, I couldn't wait either. It drifted down with huge white flakes against a grey sky, landing on our noses, heads blanketing everywhere in the garden. and beyond. Perhaps it was me who stayed out the longest. In later years after the children had gone, my friend and I played in it until after dark. She sliding down our Cresta run - me with my skis. The surface had frozen later in the afternoon when the sun dipped quickly behind distant fields, crusting the top of snow lying all around and down across the undulating field. This made it easier to turn the skies. We played like children that evening, enjoying ourselves immensely, laughing and frolicking until quite late, but we didn't care.
     There isn't a bleak midwinter in Melbourne and never will be where I now live, but I'll have my cherished memories of Christmases in England and they'll stay with me forever - the charm, the delight, the snowy days and frozen nights, a log fire crackling in a grate, excited children coming down the small staircase in the cottage, to find what lay beneath a twinkling Christmas tree.