Earlier in the year, this column moved from inside the church to the churchyard, and this month we move outside once again. We are now in the dark winding lanes and grassy paths of two of the hamlets within the benefice, and we are here because it is the time of the year to muffle up and sally forth to sing Christmas carols.
Christmas carolling is on the up! Its fashionable and the IN thing to do. It is so fashionable that a couple of years ago one young man who had never before experienced the thrill of cold feet, numb fingers and a worn out voice proclaimed, “This is best day of my life so far.” He said this, even before we had arrived at our final destination in a mediaeval manor house where a roaring log fire, mulled wine and hot mince pies awaited us.
How different from when, as a callow youth, I went out with a group of singers who had a keen antipathy to alcohol. All went well until we came upon a kindly lady whose devotion to the temperance cause was not as rigorous as some of her chapel colleagues. Her home was the traditional spot where a break was taken and we went inside for soft drinks, cakes and hot tea. That year the lemonade was soon exhausted, and so she disappeared into a darkened cupboard to bring out two very large bottles of dandelion and burdock. These she emptied into the glasses of the five of us standing at the back of the crowded living room. Having dry throats we downed it quickly.
Before leaving we sang, ‘While Shepherds watched their flocks by night all seated on the ground,’ and it was during the verse where angels start descending to the earth that we became conscious of a warm glow gradually filling our bodies. Was it the angels we enquired, or something we had drunk? At that moment, the lady of the house blushed bright red and admitted to mistakenly giving us each half-a-pint of off-licence cooking sherry. The remainder of the evening though hugely enjoyable, is somewhat blurred in my memory.
Each passing year increases my enjoyment of Christmas. The warmth of the log fire the candles, the serendipitous presents, the Christmas tree and baubles, the home reared cockerel, roast potatoes and brussel sprouts and, above all, the family and friends who crowd into our old cottage for the sole purpose of enjoying each others’ company.
As I travelled the road from eager child to cantankerous grandfather, the short Christmas morning service has been a yearly highlight. The familiar music and words of the carols renew my hope, and I still get excited singing the tune Adeste Fidelis and the words, “Yea Lord we greet thee, born this happy morning.”
View from the Pew 