Christmas arrives at Malus Farm.
Monday 12th December. The last roses of November are picked out in ice. Only the lightest sprinkling of snow but the hardest of frosts. I try and capture the glitter but the magic of the landscape is too big for my camera. So I focus on the intricacy of the detail. Until my fingers go numb at least. I usually work at my kitchen table, it being closer to both the wood burner and the kettle, but today I sit at the study table upstairs, where I can look down and across the glorious white of the kitchen garden and the valley beyond.
Tuesday 13th December. A delicious deep dive into all things festive – A live chat with Lucy Brazier. (Lucy wrote the River Cottage Christmas book and I was absolutely thrilled that she featured some of my hand-dyed fabric wrapping.) A lovely meander through Christmases past and present. We talked about foods and music and scents that bring up the warmth and pleasure of Christmas cheer, and how tradition and memory forms a thread of continuity that runs through our lives. Also that you can choose your own traditions, and how my chosen tradition features a lot of cheese and crackers.
You can watch it again here.
Wednesday 14th December. I make a bird’s nest wreath on an Instagram live. An old chocolate vine base (Akebia) is transformed with long strands of ivy, the last fluffy wild clematis, and finished with old, fallen larch branches and teasels. I have a lovely time and the wreath is gloriously mad.
I haven’t managed to summon up the courage to share and publish a live video yet (if you want to truly test the resilience of your mental health, try embarking upon video content creation; I don’t think I have ever experienced anything quite like it) but getting brave with films and YouTube is part of my hopes and dreams for 2023.
I might even leave the wreath up to remind me that progress, not perfection, is the goal.
Thursday 15th December. The cold snap reaches new depths. I walk the dogs under the clearest, crispest skies. I wear so many jumpers that I can’t zip up my coat, and so many socks that I have to wear my husband’s boots. I also wear a woolly hat which is a significant concession to the conditions; I usually consider bobble hats on anyone over six years old to be an abomination. The spaniel collects frost between his toes and the setters ice in their ears.
Friday 16th December. Living and breathing the business that you run means that work and play become entirely merged. I have frequently been unable to tell the difference between weekdays and weekends. As we move towards Christmas, I am determined to try and wrestle the days of the week into some meaningful order, and it is time to reinstate ‘fairy light Friday’. Even if I work at the weekend, Friday night can have some special meaning, and turning on all the fairy lights in the kitchen on a Friday night is a little, but very visible, celebration.
Add some mulled cider and a pig in a blanket, and it is practically a party.
Saturday 17th December. The big thaw. The new thatch drips past the window. I light the wood burner out of habit. The old thatch, old wheat straw, covers the kitchen garden behind the cottage. I have never ever seen so many birds in the garden. They come in flocks, picking out the grains from the straw. Usually, we are limited to pigeons and robins, and the arrival of so many different types (I think I even spied a coal tit) brings great joy.
The fact that I can lean on the warm cooker and watch them out of the kitchen window just adds to the charm.
Sunday 18th December. Two highlights today. The village carol service. I manage to duck out of the reading on the excuse that I did it last year. And a courier delivers a box of Westcombe cheese. It contains all sorts of glorious things but the pinnacle is a kilo of ricotta. I am beside myself with happiness.
