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I. CHRISTMAS EVE The long shopping list looked pretty routine—with two noticeable exceptions. In 35 years of marriage we had never before shopped for Christmas pudding or Christmas crackers. Still, the Tesco hypermarket looked familiar, crowded on this Christmas Eve day with stressed-out, last minute shoppers getting ready for company. And, just like at home in America on the eve of a big holiday, the English supermarket was more restive than festive.
Back at the cottage we unloaded the car and stocked the larder full. My wife and I retreated to our upstairs bedroom to wrap gifts. My son and his wife did the same. His mother-in-law, who had flown in from Sweden to join us for Christmas, took command in the kitchen. Christmas Eve night is the traditional Swedish celebration of Christmas, and Ingrid was preparing the hearty Christmas stew we would have before heading off to church.
A GAS FIRE IN THE ANCIENT FIREPLACE KEPT THE ROOM WARM. In the glow of the fireplace we toasted the season with glögg, a warm Swedish mulled wine wassail. Then we retired to the candlelit supper table, where Ingrid’s Christmas stew fortified us further.
THE CHOIR'S VOICES SOARED IN THE GRAND GOTHIC REACHES OF THE PLACE.
Back inside our rented 16th century cottage, we huddled round the gas fire, and warmed ourselves further with hot glögg. In the Swedish tradition, we each opened one gift before midnight brought Christmas Day and sent us to bed. ROSES STILL BLOOMED.
Home at First
offers travel to the Cotswolds and 16 other regions of Britain and Ireland. For complete information, see: BRITAIN & IRELAND. |
Somehow we managed to get several bags of
groceries and all five of us into our small Vauxhall rental car. Fortunately, it was a
short trip back to the little 16th century cottage we had rented, although made fifty
percent longer than normal by heavy traffic on the highway. It was Friday afternoon, and
get-away time at the start of the long holiday weekend here in rural western England.
Saturday would be Christmas, and Sunday Boxing Day—what we anticipated would be
Christmas, Part Two. We noticed cars full of packages and kids with faces pressed against
the windows. More than a few had evergreen trees strapped to the roof or sticking out of
the boot.
The weather was cold and damp, but the gas fire
in the ancient fireplace kept the room warm. Hanging from the rough-hewn oaken mantle were
five stockings we had brought with us from Pennsylvania. My wife and I filled them with
lots of little gifts we had carried with us, plus fruits and nuts from the Tesco
hypermarket. Several larger gifts leaned against the stone sides of the fireplace away
from the heat of the open gas flame. My wife and I had purchased a few of these at
London’s Petticoat Lane market and along Oxford Street before coming to the
Cotswolds. Others came from Christmas markets in Sweden and English towns. It would be a
rich Christmas, with each of us getting and giving to each other. By prior agreement, we
had decided to limit the size and number of gifts, if not the quality or the sentiment. No
one wanted to be overladen on the journey home.
We needed fortification. We had decided to walk
to the local Christmas Eve church service, 35 minutes away. Although the temperature
outside was just above freezing, roses still bloomed in the gardens of homes we passed. A
few houses were decorated with electric lights, but displays were very modest by American
standards. Christmas trees were visible inside many English living rooms. Streets were
largely empty—traffic had "calmed" since the height of the afternoon
Christmas rush. We were well bundled against the damp and cold. Though someone occupied
every seat, temperatures were not much warmer inside the medieval stone church, and many
worshippers wore overcoats and gloves. Wonderfully, the church choir remained unaffected
by the chill, and their voices soared in the grand gothic reaches of the place. The
Anglican priest, like ministers I have heard in American churches at Christmas and Easter,
was careful to take the opportunity to admonish his overflow audience that they should
strongly consider attending the regular services held each Sunday in the same location.
Kindly, he shook our ungloved hands as we filed out after the service feeling our spirits
lifted if a little guilty for being infrequent churchgoers.
The walk homeward was Dickensian. In the full
moonlight our breath steam was heavy with condensation. I imagined glassy footpaths
lurking in each dark corner and hoarfrost icing on the shrubbery. Churchgoers in Christmas
finery strolled high-mindedly arm-in-arm. Coats unbuttoned, a few high-spirited revelers
poured out of pubs laughing and stumbling in the streetlights. One or two poor besotted
young men huddled low in their greatcoats away from moon and lamplight, and from inquiring
eyes. As we entered our street a milky blue light shone out from a neighboring house: a
giant screen TV filled a complete wall of a small living room in a centuries old cottage.
A vintage American western was playing on British television on the last hours of
Christmas Eve.