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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.
FATHER & DAUGHTER-IN-LAW AWAITING CHRISTMAS PORRIDGE 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. 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.
THE RIVER EYE WAS A MIRROR REFLECTING GOLDEN COTSWOLDS COTTAGES. 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. 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 shoetops 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 INTERSECTED At the hilltop
our trail T-intersected the main branch of the Cotswold Way following the north-south
ridgeline. We turned south, joining a large family group enjoying a Boxing Day outing with
their Border collie. Their obvious joy told us that a white Christmas was as precious a
gift to this English family as it was to us Americans and Swedes. In another ten minutes
the Cotswold Way began a steep descent down Shenberrow Hill west into a wood and into the
sunset. Twenty minutes and five hundred feet lower, we emerged from the forest in the
fading twilight at the southeastern edge of Stanton. In another ten minutes we back at our
car by the Mount Inn, and on our way back to our own classic village, to curl up by the
fire after a supper of turkey leftovers and Swedish stew. Each of us had traveled far to
come together for three days of peace at Christmastime. Now, many months later, it's easy
to return to that time and place and find peace again. u
Home at First
offers travel to the Cotswolds and 16 other regions of Britain and Ireland. For complete information, see: BRITAIN & IRELAND. |
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 living room. My son was in the shower. I requested a cup of
tea and joined Ingrid by the fire.
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.
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,
and the Slaughters in all their peaceful irony were ours.