Another one bites the dust

I last saw daughter number one outside the place where the family had spent the three days of Christmas on a self-catering basis. We can’t do the twelve days of Christmas. Let’s face it, can any family? Aged parents had made a speedy getaway with the man-child and pal; I was trying to work out what the knocking noise was in my car and said daughter was screaming at the grandchildren because the dog was trying to eat the hamster. The hamster wasn’t a Christmas present: they just brought it with them on holiday. Forgot to bring any food for it which defeated the object of leaving it at home to starve. Daughter number one had also forgotten to bring any underwear for herself or any clothes at all for her daughter. Man-child had forgotten a change of socks and I forgot to retrieve the pudding wine from the fridge on the occasion of any puddings.

Lots of snowy walks across fields took place……..one of the best reasons for going somewhere in the middle of nowhere. For many of us, myself included, it was the first white Christmas in our lives. The little dog laughed to see such fun and finally learned, probably from exhaustion, that sleeping on settees was forbidden. Beds are an exception to the rule: having risen at a ridiculous hour to do something or other, I returned au lit and woke again at sensible-o-clock to find him asleep at the end of the bed. The weak but determined sun shone across the Arne peninsula, the snow was pockmarked with the prints of giant rabbits and Santa’s Sika and there was a fracas in the kitchen on Christmas morning.

An everlasting game of Monopoly caused boredom and friction and excitement in no particular order. One Christmas quiz was well-received; the second provoked cries of derision from the younger generations, being largely concerned with ye olde Morecombe and Wise questions. The Beetle game was derided for not utilising traditional pen and paper and all the plastic beetles fell to pieces. The person who received an electronic Keyboard was unable to play it due to an incompatible plug……..probably a great blessing to everyone else and we all received far more lovely gifts than we deserved.

Cocooned in the best of Dorset’s landscape, we were warm and well-fed and watered. We still have Christmas money to spend, book-tokens to exchange and 85 episodes of the Sopranos box set to watch. Some have a show to attend, others are off to the panto and numerous tomes await perusal. Three loads of washing are complete and man-child and I have ordered a take-away curry. Lovely family Christmas. Thank-you G & G.

Hallelujah

Some years ago, we used to mark the beginning of Christmas in Dorset by the winter solstice. Before dawn broke on the 21st, we would all pile into the car, sleepy-eyed, and drive up to the ancient hill-fort of Badbury Rings to watch the sun come up. How did I persuade young children that this was a worthwhile exercise when they were only a couple of days into Christmas holiday lay-ins? Well, to tell the truth, they were never that keen on staying in bed when they could get up and watch Sound of Music for the millionth time. But to get them dressed and off with no breakfast?

There would be scores of folk at Badbury Rings, cold but not wretched. Once gathered, an ancient being would lead us up onto the circles. Sometimes, there would be dancing once up there, but the main idea was to overlook the old Deer Park and view daybreak. Ancient being would then regale us with superb stories of time past, tinged with folklore, ghosts and myths. Just for long enough that we didn't freeze and to whet our appetites. For what came next was a trip down to the estate of Kingston Lacey where a cooked breakfast to the accompaniment of carol singers awaited.

Once everyone had eaten as much as they could and drunk copious quantities of sweet tea, the Mummers would arrive to perform their play. There is only one Mummers' play regardless of the time of year. George and the dragon do battle, George is killed, the doctor arrives and brings him back to life and lastly, Father Christmas turns up. And that is why the children never complained. In any case, they could be back in doors by 10am. The ancient being died and I never understood why he didn't pass his tales on for that is the tradition of story-telling.

Latterly, I know Christmas has arrived when it's time to witness Handel's Messiah. Been going for years. Wouldn't miss it. The children are all grown up now. I took two of them to Messiah once but I don't think it agreed with them so now I go alone. I've noticed that a lot of people go alone to Messiah. The lady on my left tonight was alone as was the man on my right. It was the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra with a 112 strong chorus and it was fabulous. Being a student, I had middle seat, fourth row for £4. I knew there would be a payback for the Cornish experience. And I know it's good when folk are wiping away the tears and sharing tales of raised hairs on the back of their necks having had nothing stronger than a tub of ginger flavoured New Forest ice-cream.

Another one looms

Just had a quick ferret through the archives to find the blog I wrote before Christmas last year. I wanted to see how far we'd moved forward in 12 months. Can it be that the dishwasher hasn't functioned for over a year now? I really must do something about that. What that might be I have no idea as no-one wants to come and look at it. The sitting-room light is still working...touch wood. The only problem is that it's one of those upside-down flying-saucer types so, unless you've got a good memory (ha,ha), you forget until you switch it on that it also acts as a collector of small flying things. And, by the time you've realised this, it's too hot to take it down. Sadly, I've never heard again from Caroline since she was chief witness at the first of last year's rows. Fair weather and all that stuff.

The man-child is still ensconced in the land of the sheep and daughter number two has yet to arrive via the Christmas markets of Copenhagen. Aged parents have also been to little wooden festive huts, theirs in Milton Keynes. Say no more. MK is all very well but I doubt they had a similar range of pastries and bacon. When I was last in West Barbary, I read there was to be a Christmas Market in Truro. It was called Best of Cornwall so I imagine it was not a big event; pasties rather than pastries I suspect. No, I am living quietly in the Dorset calm-before-the storm amongst the sick and tired. Everyone has the cough/cold/throat and all my attempts at haute cuisine have turned into meals-on-wheels. Saturday, the invitees couldn't come due to poor health so I took my slow roasted lamb round to daughter number one who was also stricken. Last night, having received a welcome invitation to dinner from one who is so exhausted that it evolved into 'something on a tray', I loaded up the car with Tartiflette and Apple Crumble and we gorged in front of a real fire.

I have visits or visitors every day and night this week but what I'm really looking forward to, recluse that I am, is Friday evening when I take myself to the BSO and choir's rendition of the Messiah. I'm not unsociable but I love Messiah and having once shared it at the Sheldonian with folk who got into a dreadful mess involving chewing gum, a fur collar and an unending attack of giggles, I now prefer to indulge myself alone. This, with the exception of exhausted friend who accompanied me to Christchurch Priory last year. After this, bring it on: all friends and family welcome for the festivities.

Seven Stars, Stithians

What I like about Cornwall: my local. I've never had a local before and I love it. No, I do. Hate Cornwall...love the pub; especially on Sunday evenings which is Quiz Night. You can go on other nights, on your own if you like as long as you don't mind talking to Phil the Tooth. I call him that because he's only got the one. He tries to pretend he doesn't go to the Seven Stars every morning and night. Once I met him outside the door and he told me he was only there waiting for a man to move some chairs. He can talk for hours about the sausages from Tresvathen's farm. I know how many he's eaten, how many his sister's eaten and the sneaky one he's hidden for his breakfast.

I don't actually live in the village: I live in a hamlet of six houses at the end of a road that's covered in ice five months of the year. Ian and Lindsay live in the piggeries and Josh, the musician, lives with Nanny Mollie and together, Simon, we are The Lodgers..... a quiz team to beat all others. In order to get to the Seven Stars AND enjoy a drink & the quiz, we must abandon the cars and walk across three fields, over two stone stiles and around the back of the churchyard. Sometimes, it's breath-taking: a huge Cornish sky full of stars. Other times, it's breath-taking: an arctic wind blowing across the vast expanse. Other times, it's just scary....some rotten farmer having slipped a herd of cows in when no-one was looking.

We go to the quiz because we win lots of free food and the booze is cheap. We are eclectic drinkers: a small bottle of Shiraz, half of Pear Rattler, Jack Daniels and coke, Sailor Jerry with Ginger Beer. They know us now though and think we're nearly normal. The quiz begins. Lisa calls out 'who got 9 out of 10?' A cheer. Was that the Lodgers or the Old Farts? For they are our rivals. Half time and a fag break. The whole pub, including the landlady and Rusty the dog,  puts on coats, hats, gloves, scarves and decamps outside to discuss how cold it is.

Throughout the evening, ticket numbers are called whereby the lucky person wins a dog. Everyone wants to win number four...Gay Dog! Once all six dogs have been won there is a greyhound race on the TV. I should say that this is after all the quiz rounds have been completed and vast quantities of alcohol imbibed. There is uproar in the pub as everyone shouts for their dog knowing full well that number six always wins. I have never before been to a pub where everyone gets drunk on a consistent basis. Everone talks rubbish and there is never any trouble. Hate Cornwall....love the Cornish.

For Bridget

Hello readers..remember me? It's been so long. Most people know what I think of West Barbary so, given that and the 15000 words I've written for my course, you will not be surprised that the old blog was put on hold. But, like Chris Rea, I've driven home for Christmas and feel that I must publicly respond to Bridget's latest email. The lovely Bridget is a great fan of Cornwall so keeps sending me suggestions of places I should visit in order to see a better side of things. For example, St Ives. Been there.

I met a man in St Ives. No idea whether he had seven wives or a number of cats in sacks. They weren't with him at the bus stop where I met him wearing a jumper with RNLI embroidered on it. He was..not me. We were waiting for a bus because St Ives is situated on the side of a mountain with the car park at the top. Actually, the bus was already there; had been for some time but the driver said he didn't fancy going just yet so all the smokers disembarked. I mentioned the weather to the RNLI man. They have a lot of weather in Cornwall, none of it particularly pleasant. The RNLI man said I should consider myself f****** lucky not to be on a boat. I agreed. He then told me a very interesting story about the latest body he'd dragged out of the sea. Do you meet these people Bridget?

I went to Tate St Ives but didn't understand the pictures. I went to the Hepworth studio and gardens but didn't understand the sculptures. I sat on the quay and had a coffee whilst watching six men dragging a large boat along the prom. They all stood around and discussed possible ways of making it move more easily. There was no consensus. I couldn't help but notice the sea in the background of this pleasant vista. Probably too obvious.

Bridget thinks I should turn off the A30 and visit Minions. Minions. Where should I start? Sadly, I've also been to Minions. I'll tell you briefly because the memory is too painful. Minions was where our mini-bus parked when we went on what was euphimistically referred to as a writing field trip. I borrowed some waterproof trousers and invested in a rainproof coat and proper walking shoes. I borrowed a rucksack. We virtually ran past the Hurlers which I would like to have looked at and yomped up to the Cheeswring. It rained icy rain all day. We went up three tors and slid amongst wild horses and sheep. We walked eight miles. The only time we stopped in five hours was for our packed lunch and I felt so ill I couldn't eat because I couldn't breathe. We did no writing because it was too wet and no-one could talk on the way home because, largely, we were dead. I couldn't walk the next day. Any more bright ideas Bridget.