Today
Tomorrow is Advent Sunday. I've decided that the Dixon Facebook page should give us all roles within an advent calendar.
I heaved out the box of decorations that live at the flat, hoping that Lizzie will get the place looking jolly in good time. There's a rather classy black & silver wreath that will go on the front door.
"One thing I've always wanted to do, but so far failed," I said to Paul, " is have a proper Advent wreath, like Mamma did."
In My Day
Mamma's German background led her to introduce a number of rituals that gave a real sense of the approach of Christmas. She used to buy a wreath in time for advent. This was hung horizontally with four wide red ribbons. Its sole decoration were four candle holders. In Advent Sunday one candle would be lit, on the 2nd sunday two, and so on until Christmas Day.
Long before nasty Disney Advent calendars containing chocolate could be bought at any £1 shop, Mamma used to scour exotic stationers and German emporia to provide us with an Advent Calendar. The designs were classic, and just the opening of another door was reward enough. We were absolutely unique among our friends and classmates in having such a delight.
We also didn't forget that St Nicholas, as well as being Santa Claus, also had a festival of his own. On the night of 5th December, Mamma would first read, translating from the German, the story of St Nicholas, coming down from Heaven on a donkey, via a moonbeam, and bringing joy to the poor little girl who couldn't afford the chocolate ship she'd seen in a window.
Then, before we went to bed, we placed our shoes on our window sills, hoping that St N would descend on his moonbeam and fill them with sweeties. We were careful not to be greedy; when Chris suggested he put out a wellington boot one year, Mamma was full of Strewelpeter-type tales of how such greedy children would merely find a stick!
We would wake up early on 6th December and, before it was light, find the shoes filled with goodies, I particularly remember some little chocolate kittens that I was given one year. I could hardly bear to eat them. I don't know how Mamma managed with David being at boarding school; perhaps she sent something care of the matron.
So the days peeled away, each with a special significance, until the big day.
If the Dixons on Facebook are going to be advent calendar items, perhaps my status should be a calendar girl?
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
Fogbound
Today
Never mind the forecast, we get our own weather up here on the Mendips. This morning the Mendip Murk was well settled. The tops of the trees were barely visible and everywhere had a damp, dull feeling.
We set off for Wells to do some shopping. As we got to the top of the beacon the murk had become a steady, foggy drizzle. "I thought the forecast said it would be quite nice today, with reasonable temperatures," grumbled my 'other 'alf. "Well, it's not cold," I said, "and I expect that this is just because we're up in the cloud layer. It'll be clear by the time we reach Wells."
Which it was. But not before we'd driven through ghostly mist. Various shapes, trees, the mobile phone mast at the Mendip Golf Club, buildings and other unidentifiable shapes, loomed at us in the mist, looking vaguely menacing, before disappearing.
In My Day
As a child I always found mist rather frightening. There was fog in London which, although dangerous smog at times, seemed nothing special. But fog in the countryside was another matter. You could lose your way and be lost forever.
After our ill-starred voyage to Wales in 1955, (see blog 3/5/05) Daddy decided he would buy three abandoned shepherd's cottages high on the hillside overlooked by Snowdon. I think he had some idea about renovating them, although this came to naught. He wanted to take another look at his purchase, so went off with me & David in Douglas later that year. The cottages really were derelict and Daddy bought some camp-beds and basic paraphernalia and we camped right there in the cottages. Quite apart from all the other horrors associated with camping, there was also the daily terror of the mountain mist. It crept down the mountain on wet mornings and up the mountain on fine ones. I was simply terrified and really feared some sort of loss of this world every time the mist appeared.
In the Summer of 1966 I put my trust in David's navigational skills and went off with him for a fortnight exploring Exmoor. We had some very lovely weather and walked many miles. The result of David's navigation is a subject for another blog, but what we did have was our fair share of mist.
One day we decided to walk from Coombe Martin to Lynton. This was a long enough walk in itself and the day started with a thick sea mist. We tackled the Hangmen as the mist floated in and out to sea. I was hyperventilating from anxiety each time I saw the headland start to vanish. We made slow progress and David then noticed that the path made a huge swerve inland to avoid a deep coombe - Sherrycombe. With a confidence that I have since learnt to distrust, David decided that we could just go straight down into the coombe and up the other side.
Well, even in those days, OS maps were pretty clear about the terrain and showed that this was covered in scree. We scrambled down the pathless coombe, bringing rocks and shale with us. The mist hovered alarmingly at the mouth of the valley. We had some lunch in the bottom then started to scramble up the other side. More scree, held together with brambles, which made it especially pleasant. David saw that the mist was beginning to draw in again. This was the incentive I needed - quicker than any fell-runner I was up that coombe and heading for the proper path in a very short space of time.
A few days later we had a walk which encompassed the Doone Valley. We'd already seen that the short walk up it from Malmsmead attracted a 6d fee so David said that it was no problem to approach it from behind. I wanted to know how we'd do it when there were no paths and we'd already learnt that the terrain was treacherously boggy. David explained that we'd walk along the dry-stone walls, using his super-detailed OS map. Impossible to get lost!
So, again, in thick morning fog, off we set. To an extent, David was right; we could walk along the walls, except where they were intercepted with drainage channels requiring herculean leaps to cross. I shan't forget that spooky trek, stumbling along half-collapsed walls, leaping (or failing to leap) across the ditches, as ruined cottages and beehives hovered in the fog, half in and half out of my vision. I had by that time read Lorna Doone so it was easy to imagine bands of brigands hiding in the heather.
We eventually arrived at Malmsmead at the sun broke through, feeling smug about having saved 6d and having completed about a quarter of our day's walk in about half of the day.
When I got back to the hostel I found that repeated immersion in peaty moor water had entirely rotted off my socks.
Never mind the forecast, we get our own weather up here on the Mendips. This morning the Mendip Murk was well settled. The tops of the trees were barely visible and everywhere had a damp, dull feeling.
We set off for Wells to do some shopping. As we got to the top of the beacon the murk had become a steady, foggy drizzle. "I thought the forecast said it would be quite nice today, with reasonable temperatures," grumbled my 'other 'alf. "Well, it's not cold," I said, "and I expect that this is just because we're up in the cloud layer. It'll be clear by the time we reach Wells."
Which it was. But not before we'd driven through ghostly mist. Various shapes, trees, the mobile phone mast at the Mendip Golf Club, buildings and other unidentifiable shapes, loomed at us in the mist, looking vaguely menacing, before disappearing.
In My Day
As a child I always found mist rather frightening. There was fog in London which, although dangerous smog at times, seemed nothing special. But fog in the countryside was another matter. You could lose your way and be lost forever.
After our ill-starred voyage to Wales in 1955, (see blog 3/5/05) Daddy decided he would buy three abandoned shepherd's cottages high on the hillside overlooked by Snowdon. I think he had some idea about renovating them, although this came to naught. He wanted to take another look at his purchase, so went off with me & David in Douglas later that year. The cottages really were derelict and Daddy bought some camp-beds and basic paraphernalia and we camped right there in the cottages. Quite apart from all the other horrors associated with camping, there was also the daily terror of the mountain mist. It crept down the mountain on wet mornings and up the mountain on fine ones. I was simply terrified and really feared some sort of loss of this world every time the mist appeared.
In the Summer of 1966 I put my trust in David's navigational skills and went off with him for a fortnight exploring Exmoor. We had some very lovely weather and walked many miles. The result of David's navigation is a subject for another blog, but what we did have was our fair share of mist.
One day we decided to walk from Coombe Martin to Lynton. This was a long enough walk in itself and the day started with a thick sea mist. We tackled the Hangmen as the mist floated in and out to sea. I was hyperventilating from anxiety each time I saw the headland start to vanish. We made slow progress and David then noticed that the path made a huge swerve inland to avoid a deep coombe - Sherrycombe. With a confidence that I have since learnt to distrust, David decided that we could just go straight down into the coombe and up the other side.
Well, even in those days, OS maps were pretty clear about the terrain and showed that this was covered in scree. We scrambled down the pathless coombe, bringing rocks and shale with us. The mist hovered alarmingly at the mouth of the valley. We had some lunch in the bottom then started to scramble up the other side. More scree, held together with brambles, which made it especially pleasant. David saw that the mist was beginning to draw in again. This was the incentive I needed - quicker than any fell-runner I was up that coombe and heading for the proper path in a very short space of time.
A few days later we had a walk which encompassed the Doone Valley. We'd already seen that the short walk up it from Malmsmead attracted a 6d fee so David said that it was no problem to approach it from behind. I wanted to know how we'd do it when there were no paths and we'd already learnt that the terrain was treacherously boggy. David explained that we'd walk along the dry-stone walls, using his super-detailed OS map. Impossible to get lost!
So, again, in thick morning fog, off we set. To an extent, David was right; we could walk along the walls, except where they were intercepted with drainage channels requiring herculean leaps to cross. I shan't forget that spooky trek, stumbling along half-collapsed walls, leaping (or failing to leap) across the ditches, as ruined cottages and beehives hovered in the fog, half in and half out of my vision. I had by that time read Lorna Doone so it was easy to imagine bands of brigands hiding in the heather.
We eventually arrived at Malmsmead at the sun broke through, feeling smug about having saved 6d and having completed about a quarter of our day's walk in about half of the day.
When I got back to the hostel I found that repeated immersion in peaty moor water had entirely rotted off my socks.
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