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What?! Leave home for Christmas?! Blasphemy!
 
PART TWO
BACK TO PART ONE

THIS ARTICLE FIRST APPEARED IN OCTOBER, 2005. EXPANDED & UPDATED: OCTOBER 2010.

II. CHRISTMAS DAY
 
        Christmas morning came quietly and late without the excitement of children. The heavy duvet was too comfortable to voluntarily leave. But the sunrays streaming in the little leaded bedroom window insisted, and, with the urging of my bladder, I was finally induced to get up.

         I wasn’t the first out of bed. Someone was already in the kitchen. Coffee was already brewing. Presumably, the kettle was on for morning tea. I put on heavy woolen socks and a sweater before going onto the bare wooden kitchen floor. My son’s wife, Lisa, was inside the kitchen making the coffee and tea. My wife, coffee cup in hand, was sitting at the kitchen table in her heavy robe talking with her daughter-in-law. Lisa’s mother was already awake, too, curled up with a book in front the gas fire in the

FATHER & DAUGHTER-IN-LAW
AWAITING CHRISTMAS PORRIDGE
Photo © HOME AT FIRST

living room. My son was in the shower. I requested a

        The gifts were being ignored. Breakfast first: steaming, buttered, sugared rice porridge, toast and jam, and fresh fruit. Then we retired to the fireplace for the American Christmas morning ritual of gift-opening.

        There were no large or lavish gifts and few enough of them—3 each plus a Christmas stocking—yet the process still consumed more than two hours, ending after noon. In the interim the sun had reached its low December zenith and had managed to warm the day into the upper 40’s. My wife announced that she would be preparing an Anglo-American Christmas dinner and would require three hours of peace. We would be free to go walking.

        Shortly after 1PM we tied on our hiking boots and headed into the fields west of our village. Although we were following a map, a lack of trail signs, muddy footpaths, and high hedgerows made it difficult to find our way. No matter. Getting lost in England only means you must seek directions from a stranger—a delightful prospect that promises better conversation than is available in most American social gatherings. Happily, we discovered we were not the only ones to be walking in the hills, fields and forests on Christmas Day. We spoke with everyone we met, enjoyed every conversation, and always received helpful advice. That most of it was inaccurate mattered little. The setting sun and rising moon told us where west and east were found. By walking toward the moon we made it home after three hours of walking, after sunset, and after becoming cold and hungry.
 

FIRST, THE CHRISTMAS CRACKERS
NEEDED TENDING TO.
Photo © HOME AT FIRST

         The glowing fireplace welcomed us only slightly more than the beautiful Christmas dinner table. Candlelight reflected among the wine and water glasses and off the gold foil of the Christmas crackers. Kitchen smells promised roast turkey and all the traditional side dishes. My wife’s big smile announced confidently that all the elements of the feast were coming together at once, and that we should come to the table. First, the Christmas crackers needed tending to. While the explosions were disappointing, the prizes were keepers. Mine presented me with a sterling silver bookmark I’m hanging on to.

        For the next two hours we worked our way through the turkey, stuffing, two kinds of potatoes, green beans, red and white wine, hot rolls, Christmas pudding, coffee and tea. The table talk slowed only when we retired to the fireplace, when our tired legs, the warm fire, the wine, and the tryptophan quickly had us dozing.

III. BOXING DAY
 
        Sunday—Boxing Day. The day after Christmas is a public holiday in Britain and many other places. Tradition holds December 26 as a day to present small gifts (presumably in small boxes) to deserving members of the underclasses. Lacking footmen, valets, porters, butlers, cooks, concierges, scullery maids or the like to honor with our presents, we decided to rise early and go walking.

        This time we took the car up into the highest Cotswolds. As we gained altitude the air temperature dropped. We drove carefully. The sunny day made the roads treacherous. Bright sun melted the frost on some roads. When shadows fell across the wet roads patches of black ice would form.

  
         It didn't take long to reach our first destination, the ominously named village of Lower Slaughter. At 10AM the village church was convening. The English sun was still low in the sky and shadows were as long as they are at gloaming. The glinting angle of the sun melted the frost on the grass into wet diamonds. The little River Eye was a ribbon mirror reflecting golden Cotswold cottages in the bright, frosty, stillness. We found the trail marker pointing northwest across fields upstream ¾-mile to Upper Slaughter village. Perfect weather for walking on Boxing Day,

THE RIVER EYE WAS A MIRROR REFLECTING
GOLDEN COTSWOLDS COTTAGES.
Photo © HOME AT FIRST

and the Slaughters in all their peaceful irony were ours.

        The good folk of Upper and Lower Slaughter must tire of throngs of summer visitors poking around their perfect villages, pointing cameras shamelessly. I can imagine that the attention-plagued citizens of Upper and Lower Slaughter must maintain a certain stoicism that borders on the cynical. But, on this fine winter’s day, an armistice existed in the Slaughters, and we few visitors were warmed with the sincere greetings of the season from the local people we met along the way.

        Noon was fast upon us, and, as there was no pub or restaurant open in the Slaughters, we returned to our car and set off to one of my favorite English pubs, the Mount Inn in Stanton. Gaining more altitude, we left the frost zone and crossed the snow line. The Mount Inn is on the very edge of Stanton, another perfect Cotswold village that draws great attention to itself by remaining frozen in aspic.

        Stanton was emptier of visitors than the Slaughters. Until we arrived at the Mount Inn, that is. The Mount was lively, even boisterous, warm, and hospitable. The real ale served here comes from the small Donnington Brewery in nearby Stow-on-the-Wold. The food—hearty pub soups and sandwiches—was excellent and substantial enough for long distance walkers on the Cotswold Way who pass by the inn at all times of year.

AT THE HILLTOP OUR TRAIL
INTERSECTED THE MAIN BRANCH
OF THE COTSWOLD WAY.
Photo © HOME AT FIRST

        After lunch we decided to set off on foot up the Cotswold Way. Up is the operative word here. From the Mount Inn, a branch of the Cotswold Way climbs steeply twenty minutes east to one of the high points of the Cotswolds Hills midway between Stanton and Snowshill Manor. We passed quickly from a wood into open fields, our shoe tops covered in powder. The trail traced a rill that wound its way to the hilltop. Three-quarters of the way up we heard the muffled drumming of horse hooves in the field to the left of the trail. Five riders of mixed ages galloped by us toward a low fence and a hedgerow. Four of the horses cleared the fence—the youngest rider, an early teenager, went around—and all jumped the hedge. Two minutes later the same group returned, jumped both obstacles in full stride, and waved to us before disappearing to the west.

        At the hilltop our trail T-intersected the main branch of

the Cotswold Way following the north-south ridgeline. We

EPILOGUE: Travelers travel. We explore geographies and cultures that captivate our curiosity. Even at Christmastime. Perhaps especially at Christmastime. Those for whom Christmas is the ultimate family gathering time may find having Christmas at a dream destination the perfect family holiday — and an ideal Christmas gift. Bring your holiday traditions with you, and expect to discover new ways of celebrating the season that you will want to add to your family's traditions. The experience will be unforgettable.

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