To the Church of St James, of the Knights Hospitaller of Jerusalem, as is my custom, to celebrate the habits of my tribe, as they have done since 1211. After last year’s restoration the church is open again, the tiled floor resplendent, the interior warmer and less damp, despite a cold winter’s day. A villager with excellent carpentry skills crafted a new board for the front gate.
In the gloaming there was a Christmas tree, advent candles, and hand-held torches for the carols. The two church wardens, both suddenly widowed recently, had reworked the traditional service to its advantage. Every reading was immediately followed by a relevant carol, such that both made sense. The entire service was in a printed handout, so there was no need to navigate the hymnal by a wooden board of hymn numbers, trying to remember which verses had been dropped for theological or time saving purposes. Furthermore, the carols were all easy to sing. A relief.
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In another notable transformation, the front two rows of pews were reserved for congregants with children. I have never seen so many, not since 1981 anyway. The vicar began by explaining that she had no objection whatsoever to young children crying and making a noise, and that old people could do the same. Charitable. Being at the front, parents of the noisier children could remove them quickly to quieter places, though only one mother had to do so. 10 children, perhaps? “It’s a miracle, a miracle”.
There is a more prosaic but still uplifting explanation. Older villagers have passed away, and their large houses attracted those wanting to raise families in tranquil settings. Saxon villages in medieval landscapes, with only a few modern additions, are rare. Nonetheless, it is an unusual conjunction of fecundity. I sat in the front row, singing with pride and gratitude as a grandfather. May all of them flourish.
Loyal readers will know that under previous organists there have been adventitious departures from choral propriety. For example: carols which stopped before the final verse which provides the much-anticipated orgasmic conclusion. Sometimes an entire carol was omitted, requiring agile minds to flick ahead to the next numbered entry in the hymnal, whilst hiding surprise, mirth or disappointment. At other times, the organist would note mouths agape with surprise, and add in the missing verse to restore order. This evening the unity of time and place were preserved.
The church was full. Extra chairs in the aisles. The choir stalls full. One couple had to be seated in the small space next to the organ.
Afterwards we had wine and mince pies. Stalwarts had prepared everything, and children served. There were even four teenage girls in almost matching woolly berets, made by their village artist aunt. They denied being influencers. Once again, my ninety-three-winters-old friend is still confined to bed at home. Our one remaining farmer had injured his leg and was on crutches, but phlegmatic about his predicament. Young families gathered to introduce children and to plan future outings and parties. A village revived.
“So, there will be a wave of children growing up with this common heritage, who 18 years later will make their way into the world” I explained to the vicar. “In 12 years”, she corrected. “They grow up very fast now”.
Then, just a long day’s hike from Stonehenge, into the dark, cold night, past the still carp pond and the brightly lit Manor reflected in it, past distant neolithic long barrows and Iron age forts, past the hills on which the Saxon Princess was buried in her ironwork bed, past 17th century houses with lit windows and fields with gloomy trees, past the ghosts of villagers who worshipped here, and farmed, tilled strip lynchets and kept sheep, past the Maypole and the battened hedges, past ponds and streams, stone walls and gates, all these illuminated by the transforming annunciation of New Life.
Merry Christmas to you all.